


The Seven Warriors

by crimsonepitaph



Category: Actor RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Magic, Slow Build, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 00:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 71,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19860766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: Jensen is a normal guy. Not terribly social, but he's fine going at it alone. At least until the afternoon his boss - 6'4, long hair, determined to save the world one software app at a time - calls him in for a meeting. Suddenly, Jensen finds himself inexplicably connected to an ancient legend - the myth of the Seven Warriors - by a mysteriously appearing tattoo. He struggles to figure out what the tattoo, the nuclear bomb exploding in his chest every time he gets close to his boss, and the motley crew of almost-strangers they gather have in common. Maybe that they all change Jensen's life forever...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's note #1:** This is a story written for the 2019 Supernatural & J2 Big Bang challenge. I had lots of fun participating again in this, most of all due to _dollarformyname_ 's wonderful approach. I found her very invested in creating meaningful art for the story, and that made me happy-dance - that, and the fact that she's, like, AMAZINGLY talented. Please go [here](https://dollarformyname.livejournal.com/87980.html) to admire her work & drop a comment.
> 
>  **Author's note #2 (!):** See end notes for some important, but spoiler-y warnings.
> 
>  **Author's note #3:** Besides giving me advice about warnings, borgmama1of5 shaped this mammoth of a story to its present form and gave me invaluable feedback _during_ the writing process, after, _all the freaking time_ , patiently responding to my novel-length emails with pointed answers. I'm truly learning some stuff that helps me in other areas, too, which is incredible. Plus, working with her makes the whole writing experience ten times more fun! So, a huge, huge THANK YOU and a hug goes out to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: **major character death, ambiguous/open ending.**
> 
> Personally, I like knowing what's in store before I decide to read a story, so I'll try to clear them up as best I can to help. Both tags are there for a reason - the events are present in the story. The first, in a sorta-kinda-really-but-wait kind of way. Though, "real" enough that my beta advised I warn about it. The second follows from it: the ending is open to the reader's interpretation, and therefore open to consider it sad, happy or anything in between...so, keep that in mind before going forward!


	2. Chapter 2

He's walking. Chasing the same feeling, one that he can't put a name to. Following someone. A silhouette of fading thoughts, a tug that draws Jensen closer to the edge of the precipice. He looks down into an abyss swirling with memories left untouched.

But he's been here so many times, always like this. Close, yet fear builds an invisible, impenetrable wall.

His toes dig in strange-colored sand, asphalt crushed to dust mingled with smithereens of effervescent stars, light that reflects threads of darkness, while loose strands of heavy, glistening fog wrap around everything, become a rope over his hands.

An illusion of being captive within an illusion of more time.

There is no beginning and no end. He's just floating. He doesn't hear his voice when he tries to address the void. Sound is missing, but its memory softens the edges of the vision.

There is a bridge.

Grass, trees, wooden cabins, skyscrapers of glass emerge.

The rift closes and a path opens.

Reality comes barging in abruptly, an alley, a station, stone and marble walls, dirty, smelling like alcohol and piss and yesterday's trash.

A train coming.

Paralyzing light.

Jensen wakes up.

_Morning_ , _princess._ The phone screen assaults his eyes. _See u @ at 6. Gonna be a good one._

Right.

Chris.

Jensen throws mental curses as he heads to the kitchen. He hates when he wakes up disoriented and hazy, not knowing which way is up. Or which _way_ , period. He feels outside of everything – the coffee machine might as well be the control panel on a spaceship, the spoon a Viking sword, and the sugar he pours into a cup of steaming liquid, sand. He blinks, and the kitchen returns to normal, _here_ , pulling him out of his thoughts.

Fuck, he's watched too many movies.

He wants to pretend the dream was a fucked-up product of the glorious programming of late night television: a B-grade science-fiction movie followed by one about a Norse kid left behind by his clan in a Native American tribe.

Both bizarre, bloody, funnier than you would expect – though not in the way the director intended. Either of them.

But Jensen still feels unsettled. He can deal with errant dreams of heads unceremoniously separated from unwilling bodies, eyeballs flying and all, but this dream – like the others – is too real. As if Jensen is not asleep. Like he's thinking, _doing_ , _being_ –like he _belongs_ in the strange, unfinished land. And there’s the unsettling feeling that there is something he’s supposed to do – something he is supposed to know. But what it is - it never becomes concrete.

Jensen notices the microwave clock: 5:45.

_Fuckfuckfuck._

He gulps down his coffee, rockets into the bedroom and pulls on sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a hoodie.

Running.

What merciless deity had whispered into his ear that it was a good idea?

“Shit, man, you look like crap,” Chris greets him at the start of their usual trail, 6 AM on the dot.

“If you don't like my face, you shouldn’t drag me out of bed, ” _at this godforsaken hour_ , Jensen doesn't add.

Chris hears it anyway.

“Exercise. It's healthy.”

Jensen scoffs, not because he doubts the benefits of exercise, but because he doesn’t see why running would lose its magical powers if it was done at a more reasonable – much later – hour.

Still, he stretches dutifully, while trying to calculate whether he can snag a few more hours of sleep when he's done.

“So, another one?” Chris asks, and even though Jensen can't see Chris’s face while Jensen’s bent down, he hears the tone – carefully neutral, _I got my hands on a bomb, I don't know which wire to cut_ kind of approach to the conversational gambit.

It's deserved. Jensen's been an asshole about it. He wants to talk, but he doesn't want to say too much. If Chris could just _understand_ , without Jensen going through all the details and the emotional crap.

“Yeah,” he says, trying to assuage the war inside his mind about whether he should say more or stop. “I – they're getting weirder.”

“Weirder?”

“More real.”

He looks straight into Chris' eyes, having finished his human-pretzel warm-up. Chris stares at him, and Jensen sees the wheels turning, but all Chris says is, “But they're still dreams.”

“I haven't started writing on the walls in blood, if that's what you mean,” Jensen replies.

Chris grunts, satisfied. “So?”

“Yeah,” Jensen nods, absently bringing his hands up for a stretching rep he'd already done. “It's like I'm really there. But it's not...real. It's not this world, at least. But I can't get out.”

Chris pauses for a moment, shrugs, then gestures toward their running path for the day where it curves into some trees, and a glitch in Jensen’s mind sees _doorways between the trunks, and roses,_ and he wonders if he _should_ keep some O negative in his fridge in case he actually is the protagonist in a horror flick and will wake to find himself decorating his walls one of these nights.

Jesus fucking Christ.

What the hell is happening to him?

He starts running before Chris starts asking more questions he doesn’t want to – can’t – answer.

What can he do? Stop?

If he stopped, like he's tried so many times, the world would still go around and around. And he’d achieve nothing. The world’s a puzzle and Jensen’s that goddamn piece that fell out of the box, never to be found.

He can’t figure why these dreams are tying him in knots.

In truth, there's only forward, even though his brain, the irrational fucker, tells him otherwise.

Jensen jogs alongside Chris, two worlds battling in him, the overly-vivid world of the abyss colliding with the feeling of hard pavement on the soles of his feet and Chris breathing heavily at his side. _Forward_. There are storms in the clouds, yet the sun is peeking over a horizon of dusty blue, chasing away the remnants of stars. _Back._

Focus, Jensen's mind tells him.

Chris finally breaks the silence. “Uh, care to elaborate, Jen? I know it’s early, but what you said doesn't make all that much sense.”

Jensen shakes his head. It’s a chicken-egg thing. He’d elaborate if he could organize it in his head, and it’d all be more clear if he’d manage to explain it to his friend. “It doesn't make sense, Chris. Not even to me. I really can't explain it to you better than that...it's just a feeling. It doesn't really last. A gap of time where I’m…somewhere else. A couple minutes, once a whole hour…then I can think clearly again.”

“So this is not just when you sleep.”

“Sort of,” Jensen says, pursing his lips. “It never happens at work, or – I don't know, on the train, or in the shower.”

“When does it happen?”

“When I'm relaxed.”

Chris throws him a look, but doesn't stop.

They're going to have to either stop talking soon, or Chris is going to have to dial down his _The Flash_ impersonation, because if Jensen has to choose between breathing and telling Chris all about whatever crap his brain is intent on cooking up – he's going to choose breathing, thank you very much.

“When you're relaxed?”

“Yes – when I let thoughts run free in my head.”

Chris arches an eyebrow. “You have designated times for that?”

“Self-control, man. You should try it sometimes.”

“Right,” Chris laughs. “What have you got to control? Your urge to throw Padalecki a sucker punch?”

Solid. Concrete. Undoubtedly real, _now_. Jensen hangs on.

“Ugh,” he replies, summing up his feelings in a single eloquent syllable.

“I will never understand what that guy did to you.”

Jensen shrugs. “Hasn't done anything. He's just an entitled prick who thinks he's got it all figured out.”

“He's your boss.”

“He's _younger_ than me, Chris. How'd you feel if they brought out the kindergarten class to plan your stakeout?”

Chris thinks for a moment. “Well, I'm sure they'd supply decent snacks – which is more than the _dried beet slices_ Adrienne brings.”

“They're healthy, Kane,” Jensen counteracts. He lets himself be distracted with a jab. “If I can suffer through running you can eat dried beets.”

Chris mumbles something, rolls his eyes, and sprints forward, leaving Jensen to stare at his ass, wondering why the fuck he agreed to this.

Because Chris is his friend, and he'd jump off a bridge for him…and also because Jensen's an idiot.

He follows, cursing loudly.

_Good fucking morning,_ indeed.

Of course, now that he's up, Jensen's actually thinking of going to work early.

_Blasphemy_ , Chris would say.

But Chris doesn’t really know Jensen’s habits. That he has weeks when he's the first one in every morning, and weeks where he can't be bothered to show up before noon, strings of days where his promptness matches his state of mind. It's not deep psychology, really – screwed up, hating everything and everyone in sight, shiftless and giving zero fucks means restless, distinctly time-zone inappropriate nights. And very late mornings. Versus times in his life when stuff manages to go according to plan and Jensen doesn't feel like the class idiot - that’s when he qualifies for employee of the month.

This running thing with Chris, lasting for about four months now, has unintentionally catapulted him into the latter category. And today is definitely one of the better days, a fast shower and a bagel getting him out the door in time to greet his downstairs neighbor, Aldis – or more specifically, Aldis’ big brown Lab, Ike, who snuffles up to lick Jensen’s fingers for the remaining scent of breakfast. Aldis pulls the dog away, clearly upset with Ike’s manners, but Jensen grins, “It’s okay, it was a good bagel.”

That brings a faint smile to the thin man’s face and he nods as Jensen holds the door for them.

Even when he's checking his messages on the subway and sees one from Padalecki – _Meeting with new client today. Octopus room, 4 PM. Don't schedule anything afterwards_ – the lingering endorphins from the run take mercy on him and don't leave.

He switches from the mail app and goes to the happy place called _Music_ , and starts the easy rock playlist. It begins with good old __CCR__ _,_ and Jensen's mind blissfully sinks into the first notes of _Have you ever seen the rain_ , fingertips drumming on his kneecap.

The day goes by easily, the hands of the clock remarkably fast. The only time Jensen raises his head from his monitor are when Padalecki strolls through the desk-filled open space, stopping at one for a ten minute talk.

Those minutes, Jensen spends with his feet nervously bouncing up the floor, mind going off track and missing obvious stuff, a Pavlovian response to his boss' proximity.

The cause of the feeling isn't something he can pinpoint – he's definitely not nervous about his job. Hell, he's fucking awesome. He loves what he does, and that makes him give his best, day in, day out. And it's not that Padalecki's an unpleasant boss. He doesn't yell, he doesn't argue, he doesn't stroll around like he owns the place, although he does. On the contrary, he's exceedingly low-key – as inconspicuous as a 6'4 guy built like a brick wall can be, and he smiles like he goddamn wakes up with birds singing to welcome him every day. Even when Jensen sees his co-workers get a little intimidated, lost in the explanations they have to give, Padalecki's patient.

But in his ever-present suit pants and white shirt, this time with a striped blue tie, Padalecki stands out among his minions in t-shirts and jeans. Gazes are drawn to the man. While Jensen does appreciate how nice Padalecki's built, and has grudgingly taken a peek at how the shirt stretching over his back highlights groups of muscles Jensen wasn't sure really existed – it's irritation rather than attraction that he feels.

As Padalecki passes nearby, an unexplained buzz frissons under his skin and runs over reason inside his head, catapults his thoughts to _nothing_. Jensen feels immobilized, caught in a spell, unknown strings tying him to a single moment, a still frame.

A white-knuckled grip on the granite gray edge of the desk.

Blinking.

Willing himself, like he does in all his dreams, to return to his body. It's hard, but Jensen manages it. And, thank God, the universe, or whatever entity watches over Jensen, the guy never gets close to him, never more than ten feet.

Because it happens every single fucking time Padalecki gets anywhere near him.

More than once Jensen wondered whether he would have taken this job if he'd met Padalecki at the interview. But the HR person, Alona, and Misha, who was going to be his direct boss, had seemed decent, and it was the kind of work he loved doing, and the pay was better than decent...so...

Yeah. Piece of evidence number 2 that Jensen routinely makes decisions that come back to bite him in the ass.

_Two years ago._

_Loud music._

_It’s a rooftop party, and Jensen feels like they are broadcasting their taste in music to the whole city. Which is embarrassing,_ _because they’re_ _not even good songs, just some stultifying techno noise that goes well with the cocktails in everyone's hands._

_Standing by one of the stark white tables, utterly uncomfortable as the attending-only-so-I-don't-get-fired guy, Jensen watches the groups of people around him._

_He spots Alona, bright smile in a blue-gray pantsuit standing on the fake grass carpet, neon green liquid in her glass, talking with an IT support guy Jensen barely recognizes._

_Misha, Felicia, and a few of the guys on the project Jensen's working case the long tables filled with food while eyeing the bar. Some are in the smoking corner, leaning against the fissured old-stone edge of the rooftop._

_The out-of-season Christmas lights hang off metal posts, dimly visible in the late hours of the afternoon. That it will be over soon is the only vague comfort Jensen finds._

_Some socially conscious folks come to greet him, ruining the “stay at the table, deplete nearby alcohol supplies” plan and he briefly converts to a vaguely extroverted creature by trailing behind them, working at laughing at the right spots. He desperately wants to retreat to his natural habitat – bed, songs with goddamn lyrics, a phone, just him and the passing of time._

_But – friends._

_Chris told Jensen he needs to make some._

_Exact words after he’d asked Adrienne, Chris' partner, if she’d join them on their weekend sport-watching veg-out:_

_“Six fucking months working there, and you don’t have anyone else to invite to watch a game?”_

_Jensen’s response_ _to that_ _?_

_Jensen thought if Chris brought Adrienne that would be plenty of people._

_None of his colleagues – half stereotypes of programmers, living much like Jensen, in the confines of their own minds, and the other half over-caffeinated wannabe-entrepreneurs working a temporary job – have any appeal. Jensen gets through the days, but he’s never done that hanging-out-at-the-water-cooler-discussing Game of Thrones thing._

_Though he does appreciate his coworkers Alona and Felicia, who throw him smiles that ask nothing in return, who know exactly how long a conversation should go._

_He sees Padalecki._

_The CEO. An elegant figure who rotates through the group with an ease Jensen envies. An icon Jensen's only seen from far away for the entire time he’s been at kndbee._

_“_ _Earth to Jensen,” a voice to his left breaks him out of thought._

_He turns to see Felicia, senior software engineer, team leader, the answer to Jensen's prayers for competency._

_“_ _Huh?” he very smartly replies._

_She raises an eyebrow._ _“_ _What you doing?”_

_Admiring the boss' ass in perfectly fitted suit pants._

_“_ _Nothing.”_

_“_ _Watching the second coming of Messiah?” she deadpans, sipping amber color liquid from a small glass._

_She may be the only person in the world who has a weirder sense of humor than Jensen. Which is why he is forced to ask, frowning. “What?”_

_Felicia points in Padalecki's direction with the hand holding the glass._

_“Are you one of the groupies?”_

_Of course Jensen is not. He applied for this job for the opportunity to do something meaningful, because he believed in the company, the product – definitely not because he had a small, inexplicable crush on the man who ran the whole thing. After all, he'd only seen pictures of him. On the internet. Randomly stumbled across._

_Applying for a job because the CEO was white-hot would be absurd, and Jensen is profoundly rational._

_“Is he really the puppy rescuer the press makes him out to be?”_

_She smiles. “The company wouldn't work otherwise.”_

_“Do good, as much as you can, really, all that?” Jensen cites from the company's tagline._

_“Ray of fucking sunshine.”_

_He laughs._

_“Some of it's true,” Felicia continues, grinning, and they both watch as Padalecki shakes hands with another suit-clad guy. “The part that matters most, that checks out,” she adds, tone more serious than before._

_“But don't drink the Kool-Aid is what you're saying.”_

_“No, drink it. Just don't get drunk.”_

_Jensen turns fully towards her, furrowing his brows._

_“That doesn't make sense.”_

_“It's about to,” she says, gaze unfocused over Jensen's shoulder, features changing in an instant._

_A voice, warm, but punctuated with sandpaper-rough consonants. A wave that hits Jensen and sweeps him over to crash into the nearest wall. Over the edge._

_Padalecki is a few feet from him._

_A sensation that that the cloudless sky liquefies, melts down, drowns Jensen in an ocean of nothing, leaves him adrift in the intangible, in the sheer terror that his mind concocts at the soundlessness._

_Closeness._

_Jensen meets ambergold and deep forest green eyes, dimples frozen in a half-smile, seconds interminable where the eyes shift, they feel, they allow no escape from the harrowing pain that scratches at Jensen’s chests, claws at his insides._

_Padalecki makes no step forward. Doesn't shake hands._

_Instead, slowly, barely_ _noticeable_ _, Padalecki’s body goes from rigid to forcibly relaxed, hands going to the pockets of his pants._

_“Hello,” Padalecki says, awkwardly._

_Jensen barely has the presence of mind to nod, because what do you say when you meet your boss and the instant you do, your universe feels like it's crushed in the fingers of a giant hand?_

_“Jensen, right?” the man tries._

_Jensen's not far enough away._

_Fight. Flight. Both. They should – this –_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Alona's telling me you're doing a great job,” Padalecki continues, clearly off-kilter._

_Jensen tries to breathe. Really. He does. He tells himself this is stupid._

_Nothing's going on._

_There’s open space around him. Glass. Mosaic. White, black, green, spots of neon. The world ceases to have clear edges. Jensen nods, again, mechanical, automatic, tightening the grip on his unhelpful whiskey-neat glass to the point of breaking._

_The shattering sound lands as something expected for a long time. A reminder of the real._

_The pieces fall. Blood drips._

_Felicia remains calm._

_“Jensen?”_

_Soft, even though she looks nothing like she should speak like that._

_“Here.” She hands him a napkin that becomes red quickly. Voices come closer._

_Padalecki's is gone. His presence, too. Jensen returns to now._

_He watches the blood seeping through his closed fingers, refuses when Felicia tells him to open his hand._

_“I'm fine.”_

_He’s not aware of how he ends up out on the street where the buzz of early evening allows him to breathe again._

_Jensen bends over, braces his hands, one bandaged, on his knees, greedy for the sounds that reverberate inside his head, trying to hang on to the reality of movement, cars, buildings, things to pull him from the pure void Jensen's fallen into._

_Time collapses inside itself in a storm of senseless thoughts._

_Later, when he tries to explain it to Chris, no words make sense of it._

Today, he goes in to the Octopus Room at 4 PM on the dot and takes his usual place, at the end of the conference table opposite the 150 inch TV screen.

At 4:02, Padalecki strolls in, laughing quietly at something his companion is saying – a red-headed woman, tall, thin, dressed in a way that clashes with both Padalecki and the conference room: bright sunflowers on a shoulderless top, dark flared jeans and brown and black woven leather bracelets up to her right elbow.

It's like the world realized the black, white, and fifty shades of gray of the office are not the only possible color settings. It's her smile that seals that impression, and the laugh that she draws from Padalecki.

Open, not a hint of formal.

Jensen stares for a moment, the second it takes for them to acknowledge his presence. Waits for the instant where the usual disorientation that comes with Padalecki hits him.

But this time –

This time he forgets Padalecki's there.

Jensen focuses on _her_. 

The woman's eyes catch his, and a truck hits Jensen. And he's stuck on the windshield, staring at the driver, who looks at him like she's saying, _you know, I’m sorry, this was awful, but necessary_.

Jensen’s mind is screaming _The hell is happening?_

Jensen yearns to get close, a desire stronger than any consciousness of the present moment. She must feel it, too, because, without breaking the hold of their gazes, she sits down one chair away from him.

It’s the same kind of inexplicable reaction that he has to Padalecki. And while distance is the correct prescription for Padalecki and him, the woman seems to elicit the opposite effect.

“I'm – I'm sitting here,” she announces.

Her voice is exactly like Jensen imagined it.

Whatever that means.

Jensen's surviving brain cells are struggling.

The spell is broken abruptly, and Jensen realizes that Padalecki's still in the room. He abandons eye contact with the woman, searches for Padalecki's mosaic-colored irises instead.

His boss is at the other end of the room, standing behind a dark leather chair, clasped hands raised, knuckles pressed to his lips. His expression frowning. Pensive.

Jensen thought the only thing that could bother his sunshine-powered boss was the sad fate of baby seals. They don’t watch sad documentaries at Thursday Office Movie evenings since a particularly distressing one for Padalecki. They stick to Jim Carrey and his mastery now.

“You were right,” the woman derails Jensen's train of thought.

Padalecki nods, pulling back his chair to sit, untwisting, relaxing somewhat, hands coming down on the table.

“Yes, but I wish I was certain about what this means,” he says.

It's said so quietly Jensen barely hears him.

Yep. Certainty over the strange situation. There's something Jensen needs.

Or understanding. He'd be happy with anything that explains this.

“Jensen, this is Danneel Harris.”

Jensen tries a smile and a nod in acknowledgment. Suddenly, he realizes that the feeling she so strongly inspires in him is _trust._ And he can't make head or tails of why.

“Danneel, this is Jensen. I told you about him.”

Padalecki's voice is only a soundtrack to the mystery. Jensen sees her hand raising, and she starts to lean forward, stops. A small gesture, aborted at the last minute.

She doesn't know what to do, either.

This is goddamn weird.

Jensen turns to look at his boss, searching for solid ground.

“She is not a client,” Padalecki promptly pulls _that_ rug from under Jensen.

Great. Then what the hell are they doing here?

Besides staring at each other like they're alien beings that need to be studied.

“So?” Jensen asks, breaking the heavy silence.

Padalecki waits a few moments before he answers.

“You felt it, right?”

Huh?

He felt something, all right. But he isn't going to tell his boss that.

An idea pops into Jensen's head. Maybe this is a sexual harassment thing. A test. That's the only reasonable explanation for what's happening.

“What is this?”

“Just tell us...what did you just feel?” the woman – Danneel – intervenes.

Sure. Jensen will go straight into discussing _emotions_ and _feelings_ in a work meeting.

“Look,” he starts, trying to phrase it as tactfully as he can.

He's interrupted by Padalecki.

“Jensen, I'm sorry for springing this on you,” and Jensen appreciates the sincerity in his tone. “I wasn't sure how else to do it…or even what _this_ is.”

“It's not...work.”

“It isn't,” Padalecki confirms, corners of his mouth raised in a small smile. “And you are going to have to bear with me for a little...what I'm going to tell you is a little out there.”

_Out there?_

On a scale of 1 to 10, Jensen's confusion is at an 11.

But he nods.

There doesn't seem to be any other option besides listening.

“Understandably, you're a little hesitant, but I think you did feel it, the... _connection_ ,” Padalecki pauses before choosing the last word. “If your experience was like mine, it was – it _is_ – something instinctual, instant, stronger than anything you've ever experienced. And that must be alarming. But I… _we_ think there is something more to it.”

“More?” Jensen frowns.

What is there, _more_?

Padalecki seems to try to answer the same question, looking to Danneel for answers.

She leans forward, this time more decidedly.

“Jared and I – we met in a bar, completely randomly. And there was this...feeling.”

Mkay. So Padalecki’s stuttered speech was not enough, they’re going into telenovela stuff. Why is Jensen hearing about this?

“No, not like you think,” she answers as if reading his mind. “It was like with us, just now. Do _you_ want to bend me over this table, have your way with me?”

“What?!” Jensen says, and for a moment, stops breathing.”I – I. No!”

She laughs, a glint in her eyes that was there the whole time.

“Right. It's something other than that, deeper. You, me, and him,” Danneel tilts her head towards Padalecki, “we share something, and I don't think it's sexual. Or, well...normal.”

She's right. _Normal_ is definitely something this isn't.

“We have done some research –”

Jensen turns towards Padalecki abruptly.

“Research?”

“Research,” he affirms, smiling patiently, “because our encounter came with more than that connection. Or rather, that connection came with more.”

In an unexpected move, he rolls up his left shirt sleeve. Starting at his wrist, Jensen can see an inky black spot – no, a line revealing itself, dark branches of a tree going upwards, an intricate pattern that decorates Padalecki’s entire left arm up to his bicep.

Ok, so his boss has a tattoo. He'll alert the press.

“This appeared only after I met Danneel.”

So, his boss has a _magically appearing tattoo_. Jensen's stuck between glancing at the exits and listening to this strange prank the two are pulling.

“I have one, too, it's on my back,” Padalecki's partner in the joke supports him. “Appeared the same night.”

Jensen looks between them. He's trying to find any indication they're lying. 

There is none.

“Well, couldn't have you gotten drunk and gotten a tattoo?” Jensen asks, because, okay, _tattoos_ , but what’s Jensen got to do with it?

“We don't get drunk,” Danneel answers.

“ _Everyone_ gets drunk.”

“No, I meant – we can’t get drunk. I drank an entire bottle of tequila once. Alone. Barely had a buzz.”

She seems so genuine.

It's clear Jensen's long-awaited spiral into crazy has begun.

Because…well. _He_ nevergets drunk either. Has tried, multiple times. Drank thirty-three beers on a dare when he was seventeen and incredibly stupid. He remembers exactly what he did that night. Pissed. Continuously. That was all. He felt nothing. Though the social credit he got from the whole shebang was more important than wondering why he wasn't spending his night in an alcoholic coma.

“Okay...tattoos don't just _materialize_.”

It's all Jensen can say to hang on to the last hope that this is a joke and someone will be jumping out with a video camera to say ‘gotcha.’

“They do now,” the woman says, matter-of-fact.

“I know it's hard to believe, Jensen,” Padalecki says, whisperer for the emotionally sensitive, “but think about it. You've seen me a lot of times with my shirt sleeves rolled up. Did I have this?”

Jensen does think about it.

And he has to admit that Padalecki's arms have been a subject of endless fascination for him. Jensen’s eyes have traveled that vein-ridden road too many times not to admit that what his boss is saying is true.

“You've been wearing long sleeves lately,” Jensen says, instead.

Padalecki nods and simply says, “Yes.”

Jensen stares at him for a moment. The thing that throws him off is the sincerity he senses in Padalecki. He doesn't trust it.

Padalecki is the kind of guy that seems too good to be true. Head of a million-dollar IT company. Charming, kind, patient. Always saying the right things. _Doing_ the right things. Coming in to work after 16-hour flights and ten meetings. Asking some temp HR intern about his mom, who just had surgery. Running a marathon for charity.

And Jensen has never believed it. If cop TV shows have taught him anything, it’s that the biggest philanthropists hide the darkest secrets.

Or – this thought, more Chris’ than his own, lurking in the corners of Jensen’s mind – Jensen desperately wants a reason to explain his aversion toward the guy.

“Anyway,” Padalecki breaks into Jensen’s thoughts, “we decided we'd look into it. And,” he gives Jensen an impenetrable look, “something made me think you are connected.”

While Jensen’s brain is going _what the fuck,_ Padalecki starts tapping on the keyboard built into the table. The screen behind his boss comes to life.

“You are not really googling…”

He is. His boss is searching for _magic line pattern tattoos,_ nonchalantly explaining, “Tried with magically appearing full-body tattoo, got nothing.”

Riiight.

Awesome. They're falling down the rabbit hole and waving good-bye to sanity.

Padalecki clicks some obscure links he finds on the fourth page of searches, proving that this is really desperate, and loads a page that almost gives Jensen a heart attack, as it opens with loud, ominous music and bats flying on a dark background, seemingly right toward him.

It takes a moment for Jensen to realize that the mouse cursor has transformed into a black cat with golden eyes.

Truly academic source for _research_.

“I know,” Padalecki answers Jensen's thoughts, “but wait until you read this.”

Padalecki quickly navigates on the site, entirely too familiar with, and opens a link that says _The Seven Warriors._

A block of text appears in its place. Jensen, unsure, throwing one last look at the woman beside him, starts to read.

_The legend of the Seven Warriors is one known across cultures in different forms, describing the existence of primary beings among humans – beings born out of light, in human bodies – that are given the fate of maintaining the fabric of the universe._

_They seal Time, Truth, Strength, Reason, Sacrifice, Belief, and Peace in human shells that do not differ in appearance from the world around them. The Warriors are humans; the only distinctive feature they carry are their marks, tracks of ink across their skin that keep count of the lives within. Each Warrior possesses abilities specific to their Sigil._

Jensen slowly turns to look at Padalecki.

“Don't tell me you really expect me to believe this,” he says.

But Padalecki just raises a finger, signals for patience.

He exits the site, silencing the Halloween music and leaving the golden-eyed cat behind, then types _the legend of the seven warriors_ into the search bar.

This time, he clicks on the first link, and the page displayed is almost normal – a bit too many esoteric symbols for Jensen – but still, looking a hell of a lot more trustworthy. There's no more navigation needed this time – the whole thing appears immediately in the center of the screen, in a cheesy scroll design that nullifies the initial impression of seriousness.

_At the beginning of time, there was Light. Light which birthed the Seven Warriors._

_The Warriors are the threads that hold together the Fractured Realms. They are Guardians; they are Witnesses. They are chosen as Time orders them, and deathless Time, guardian of the Guardians, will watch as they die and rise._

_Belief is the first born of Light, the nothing that exists, the builder of the Sanctuary._

_Truth follows it. It is the only way that can be, the reminder of roots and the only source of energy._

_Reason is a misfit; it is resolute, unmovable, merciless. It has not one face, but a thousand, and not all can live with its brothers._

_Strength is one, and all. It is its own, and it is of others, the Warrior that never stands alone._

_Sacrifice shall be the one gives life to all._

_And, finally, Peace. In life, a brother and sister to its Guardians; in death, itself._

_The Seven are bound, for they are Light; the Seven are disparate, for they are human. They are brothers with threads on their skin and sisters with an endless heart. The heart binds them; the Sigil tells them apart. They are nothing if not one._

_Peace requires Sacrifice; Sacrifice requires Peace. Belief is nothing without Truth, and Strength means little without the two. Reason needs no one, but is needed by all._

_Strength is not what it seems. Truth is exactly that._

_Reason will ask to be listened to._

_The Truth stands, draws its arms towards the sky, blue marks of the pure azure and language they all understand._

_And beyond all, it is Time. The seventh, the immortal._

_The Fractured Realms are given to them. The Guardians are born again and again, never to end._

Jensen stares at the screen a long time after he's finished reading.

Without saying anything, he gets up. Leaves the conference room.

It’s 4:45 PM.

That's the time Jensen becomes afraid of what he's been dreaming of.


	3. Chapter 3

There is always a constant in his dreams. There is always... _Light_. He’s wandered so many times, scratching at wooden doors along endless corridors, crawled along black sand, walked barefoot on wet grass – but never in the dark.

_Seven._

__

But his mind…only six. Six doors, always. Six mirages of _beyond_. Six paths.

__

And Jensen, always searching for something, outside of them all.

__

Reading that legend – pieces falling together on their own accord, the edges of dream memories sharpen in what was before just blurry thought. It's not conscious.

__

There's a door that's Jensen’s, invisible, closed, leaving him freezing outside.

__

And there's the feeling that he had in Danneel and Padalecki's presence – the exact opposite of that. The emptiness inside him given shape, met with heat.

__

Jensen stares at himself in the mirror of the men’s room, framed by the office palette of white and shiny gray.

__

Remnants. Fissures in the rationale.

__

Water drips off his nose, his eyebrows. He looks like he hasn't slept in years.

__

Which is, probably, the explanation for the symbol he's just seen appearing on his wrist.

__

_Infinity._

____

Of all the dreams he's had, this is the most vivid one.

____

____

Jensen returns to the conference room in a weird state of confusion and willful disbelief.

____

It's been his own choice to ignore the bizarre dreams, to believe that they're generated by his bad choice in late night movies. The thought that there could be a part of them that's real is terrifying, because that means he's crazy, cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs, that it’s a blood-on-the-wall kind of situation, like Chris said.

____

Jensen clings to reason: his life is normal. Most days are routine. He wakes. He runs. Well, sometimes. He takes the subway to work. Does his job, which is to make apps for phones. Goes back home. Watches something on TV. Sleeps.

____

So how can he think – how can he even fathom _this_?

____

A fantasy with warriors, with –

____

He's entirely too human. He's entirely too flawed for it.

____

And that's just the thing: somewhere, a traitorous part of Jensen wishes it would be true. That feeling he got after reading the myth of the warriors...that illusion of discovery. It felt like thoughts he hadn't known what to do with had obediently shelved themselves in the new mental world the legend had created. It felt, absurdly, like getting back parts of himself he didn’t recognize.

____

“You all right?” Padalecki asks when Jensen reprises his position on the opposite end of the table from him.

____

“Not really,” Jensen answers truthfully.

____

He raises his right wrist.

____

There's a sharp intake of breath coming from his left. “Did it – “

____

Danneel doesn't need to finish.

____

“Yeah. It just appeared.”

____

She exchanges a look with Padalecki.

____

“So we were _definitely_ right,” he concludes, somewhat less surprised than Jensen thought he would be.

____

“Right about what?”

____

“About you.”

____

Jensen raises an eyebrow. “More words, please.”

____

“We had a theory. _The heart connects –_ no, _the heart binds them_...well, we interpreted it as this strange feeling we got, that Danneel and I got when we first met,” Padalecki explains, and it’s the first time he has trouble putting words in carefully ordered sentences. “I don't – Jesus. Jensen...we have no idea if we're right. It's the only thing that makes sense for all the things that _don't_ make sense.”

____

Huh. So the guy does not exude certainty one hundred percent of the time. Nice to know.

____

“I still don't get it,” Jensen replies, sidestepping the confession. “I mean...I just met Danneel. How would you know –”

____

He realizes it as he speaks. That buzz. That thing that doesn't let him be in proximity to Padalecki without jumping out of his skin. Padalecki’s felt it too.

____

The next words his boss utters confirm it.

____

“If there are seven of us, we thought to begin the search with the people we had the strongest reaction to.”

____

“Even if it's bad?”

____

It's Padalecki's turn to frown.

____

“You can't say that this,” Jensen says, making a gesture with his hand back and forth, indicating the space between them, “is exactly pleasant.”

____

“I don't know what it is,” Padalecki admits. “You and I definitely have…a strong reaction to each other…”

____

Illuminating.

____

“Can you put the story back on the screen?” Jensen asks.

____

“Sure.”

____

The scroll appears again, the same words that just reshaped Jensen’s reality. He takes it from the beginning, only seconds later _Sultans of Swing_ jars him from his re-read. Padalecki exits the room as he answers his phone.

____

It's like air re-fills the space, like Jensen can breathe.

____

“Well, shit,” Danneel says, and when Jensen looks at her, he sees she's watching him. “We're supposed to be a team.”

____

“It's – I don't like him.”

____

She raises an eyebrow. “You sure that's it?”

____

It’s a challenge, and Jensen's thrown off by her demeanor. She looks so goddamn unassuming in a flowery top and hippie jeans, smile so big and genuine that the last thing you'd expect from her is the fiery attitude.

____

“Well, I don't know,” Jensen answers, irritated not with the line of questioning, but with the uncertainty it creates. “But I do know that with you it’s – different.”

____

She nods. “It's strange, though, that with me and Jared – it was a good thing. He told me that when he first met you he felt like he needed to jump off the roof.”

____

Jensen doesn't want to think about it.

____

He keeps silent, turns from Danneel back to the screen, reads and re-reads the lines in front of him.

____

The silence stretches. When Danneel finally speaks, it's with another question.

____

“Do you...if this is true, who do you think we are?”

____

He switches the track of thoughts easily. And, keeping in line with today's events, Jensen answers sincerely, shrugging. “Hell if I know.”

____

“You're definitely _not_ Peace.”

____

“Huh?”

____

She's grinning. Still.

____

“You're too...” she makes a gesture with her hand, “...combative.”

____

“Combative?”

____

Single-word replies, yay for Jensen's brain cells bravely still fighting.

____

“Not the right word, but you're definitely not _welcoming_.”

____

Jensen measures her, head-to-toe.

____

“You're vicious.”

____

She tsks. “Don't have that in the Seven.”

____

“Well, hopefully you're not _Truth_ , either.”

____

That makes her burst into a laugh. Jensen joins her. It feels good – nothing that isn’t already there, only brought to the surface in both of them, mixed, more than the improbable, only-happens-in-movies instant chemistry. 

____

“This is so freaking weird,” he feels the necessity to say, even though she already knows it.

____

“What, the fact that we might not be entirely human?”

____

“That, or someone's pulling a really elaborate trick,” Jensen says, looking at his wrist.

____

Thin lines making the symbol of infinity.

____

“Do you have marks anywhere else?” Danneel asks, following his gaze.

____

He shakes his head. “No. I checked.”

____

He did. Hoping that nobody will come in the bathroom at the moment he was admiring his back in the mirror, but he did.

____

She looks at her own wrist, where there is only normal, unmarred skin. “You're different.”

____

Apparently, he is.

____

“I'm really wondering if that's a good thing.”

____

But Danneel doesn't get the chance to reply, if she ever had the intention of it. Padalecki appears in the glass doorway, features composed into an apologetic grimace.

____

“I'm sorry – I have to leave. Client meeting. _Real_ one,” he adds, smiling slightly at Jensen.” But feel free to use my office if you want to keep talking.”

____

“Nah, I'm taking Jensen out for a beer,” Danneel announces.

____

Well, that's news to Jensen. “You are?”

____

“Well, not really for a beer. We established we're...superior human beings. But for a nicer setting than this concrete coffin.”

____

She looks at the room disapprovingly. The walls, designed to imitate stacked stone, are elegant but cold, uninviting. The rest – glass and marble, expensive décor and a shit-ton of state-of-the-art technology...it's nice, but not exactly cozy.

____

“Right,” Padalecki replies. “Well, have fun...and see you tomorrow.”

____

Jensen has to assume that the last part is directed at him. The guy probably thinks Jensen will bolt, alert either the police or a _special facility_ about the company owner deciding his employees are part of a mythological fantasy.

____

But Padalecki shouldn't be worried.

____

Even if the magically appearing tattoo on his wrist hadn't existed, Jensen had enough screws loose to at least investigate the possibility that the two weren't joking.

____

When Danneel ushers him out of the door, Jensen briefly thinks about Chris.

____

He can't wait to tell him about this.

____

He'll either start combing conspiracy websites or die laughing.

____

____

The place Danneel takes him to is not somewhere he'd ever been before. Which is not a feat, considering that the only times he goes out are with Chris, and the only places pinging Chris’ radar are noisy sport bars.

____

6 PM, and it's already dark outside.

____

Gracious winter that is not winter, warmer than it should be, snow non-existent, just a dry November air that encourages unusual alertness in those who venture outside.

____

But the time of the year and the weather makes this spot the perfect one for a night out. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows reveal the appealing view inside. Colored balls, translucent shades of cafe au lait and honey, host small lightbulbs which imbue the place with a pleasant, warm light. It's large – dark wooden tables have enough space between them for herds to pass – and there are mismatched seating elements: a two-person navy blue sofa, a large tapestried turquoise armchair, vintage straw lounge chairs, and copper, velvet-y beanbags around the edges of the room.

____

It works, somehow.

____

It helps that, in contrast to the visual chaos of the furnishings, the walls are painted a calm taupe.

____

“You going to stand there and admire it or are you going to sit down?”

____

Jensen chooses one of the comfortable looking armchairs. Danneel goes for an intricate straw chair with a curved back.

____

They settle in, rid themselves of their coats. Jensen wonders if suit-clad Padalecki would mix well with these surroundings. An important question at this moment – not the concern about their newfound identities. Ancient mystical warriors. No. That's marginal.

____

“So,” Jensen starts, but has trouble finding one idea to voice out of the many he has. “It's me, you, Padalecki...right?”

____

Even ground. Somewhere to start.

____

“Until now,” Danneel nods. “We've thought about others, but you seemed like the best place to begin.”

____

Jensen frowns.

____

“Don't get your panties in a twist. It was a question of accessibility,” she explains. “You saw how easy it was to set up a meeting.”

____

True.

____

“And the others? How… how do you know?”

____

Danneel purses her lips, hands on an unopened menu. “Well, the thing with Padalecki – have you had same reaction to anyone else? Or with me...have you felt like that before?”

____

No. Jensen hadn't.

____

He tries to define what exactly it is these two people make him feel.

____

It’s something inherent, instinctive. It’s like he and Padalecki are magnets with the same pole, repelling each other when they get too close. Yet with Danneel the reverse is true. Jensen is comforted by her presence, feeling untethered to the norms of the world they live in, and anchored in undemanding honesty – neither reaction is rational, neither is something built by Jensen's own consciousness, at least the one he had explored until now. It’s coming from that part of him that dreams.

____

“So we go with _strong_ for now. Whoever we interact with, where there's the same intensity.”

____

“Yeah, but,” Jensen counters, “you've seen it – we react differently. Even between the three of us. So how do you know you're not confusing...well, normal, with... _this_?” Jensen finishes eloquently, right hand drawing an all-encompassing, if confused gesture.

____

She smiles. “It's not an exact science, Jensen.”

____

Clearly.

____

But it's strange that her next question catches him off-guard.

____

“Do you have someone in mind?”

____

“What?”

____

Danneel’s clean, unpolished nails come to rest on the dark green leather menu cover.

____

“You were one of Jared's connections. I have one, too. Is there someone in _your_ life that you have a strong enough bond that you consider he, or she, could be part of this?”

____

_One of Jared's connections._

_____ _

_Why_ , his mind asks. Why that information, out of all, makes a cold wave wash over him, from his chest down his spine, Jensen doesn't know.

_____ _

So, like he does whenever he's completely stumped, he switches focus.

_____ _

Problem at hand. Right.

_____ _

Someone in his life...

_____ _

_Chris_. Not the level of intensity with these two…but a _safety_ that he’d felt from the first moment, so many years ago, when Chris had walked into a scared kid’s space, doing what nobody else did – _listen to Jensen_ –and that kid had known someone was finally on his side.

_____ _

Definitely. The only one that could be.

_____ _

But he just nods – he can't outright lie to Danneel, who's seemingly questioning everything as Jensen has, taking the black cats and ancient legends with a grain of salt, if not a mountain, seeking a rational explanation first and going off the deep end second. But still, he can't exclude the possibility that she and Padalecki live in some collective illusion, and need proper medication instead of encouragement.

_____ _

So Jensen doesn't tell her about Chris. Not until he figures out more about this.

_____ _

“All right,” she accepts after a few moments of silence, apparently accepting his avoidance of the question. “We'll revisit.”

_____ _

She leaves Jensen to simmer in the surprise of the quick agreement, opens the menu and starts scanning the pages rapidly. Unsure, Jensen follows her lead.

_____ _

Minutes pass in silence until the waiter comes to take their order. Jensen orders steak, red wine. Tofu-something for Danneel, white wine for her.

_____ _

They grin at each other knowingly after the waiter leaves.

_____ _

Nothing brings together people like weird secrets.

_____ _

“I’ll tell you about my connection,” she offers.

_____ _

Jensen nods. Curiosity nagged at him, but he hadn't exactly known how to ask.

_____ _

“It's my husband,” Danneel continues, so matter-of-fact that Jensen has to blink twice for his brain to process it. “My ex-husband...almost. We're in the middle of a very amicable divorce.”

_____ _

_Amicable_ , Jensen's ass. If that was not drenched in sarcasm and resentment, then Jensen's a freaking lamp with three touch-activated settings.

_____ _

“Divorce – how does that go with the strong connection idea?” Jensen asks, genuinely confused about it.

_____ _

Danneel looks at him.

_____ _

For the first time, Jensen feels like she's choosing her next words, instead of saying whatever comes into her mind.

_____ _

“You’ve pointed out, in relation to Jared, that the question of which are viable connections, the good, or the bad – is still an unanswered one,” is what she settles on.

_____ _

But... “That legend made it seem like fun and roses,” he says, thinking about the names of the Warriors. _Peace. Strength. Belief. Sacrifice._

_____ _

It's kind of hard to believe broken, human sentiments can live in beings with names like these.

_____ _

“First, Jensen, it's either _fun and games_ , or _all roses_ , not both,” Danneel replies, clearly amused by Jensen's synapses misfiring, “and second...I don't know what to tell you. He's the only one I would ever think about in this context.”

_____ _

“What's his name?”

_____ _

Sometimes, Jensen is an actually functional, social human being.

_____ _

Mostly.

_____ _

“Tahmoh. We met in college,” Danneel anticipates his next question, “at law school. It was love at first sight. Or _something_...recent events have made me reconsider what it actually was.”

_____ _

“Is that why –”

_____ _

“No,” she answers immediately, waving the rest of Jensen's words with her hand. “I only met Jared a couple months ago, got into this whole thing. The divorce has been going since last year. It was...well, there were irreconcilable differences.”

_____ _

What Jensen appreciates in this conversation is that Danneel looks at him. Even when she uses generic terms that could mean anything. She plays with the end of her napkin, twisting it at the end of her forefinger, but doesn't lose eye contact with Jensen more than a few seconds at a time, more than it takes to gather the strength to continue.

_____ _

“Have you talked to him?”

_____ _

Danneel shakes her head. “No. Not about this. It was much easier to start with you, the guy who makes Jared crazy.”

_____ _

Wait. Uh, what?

_____ _

_Crazy_ –yeah, no, not a word he'd really attach to the guy. Annoying, yes. Self-righteous, definitely. Holier-than-thou attitude – oh. Wait. It’s Jensen who makes Padalecki crazed…

_____ _

“I've never seen him...react to me,”Jensen says, finally managing to spit out what's in his head.

_____ _

“Because he stays away. He says he can't think around you. That his body feels like he's been electrocuted.”

_____ _

“In a good way?” Jensen tries, not without humor. He hadn't known the extent to which Padalecki's reaction stretched. He'd never guessed that the unexplained antipathy went both ways.

_____ _

“Not really,” Danneel replies, smiling sadly.

_____ _

Oh, joy. Add guilt to the mountain of feelings Jensen has to deal with. He promptly sweeps it at the bottom of the pile, the carefully chaotic mental universe he possesses at the edges of sanity. Emotions – he doesn't know what to do with them. Genuinely. He feels them. And there's a voice inside his head, saying – _there's no reason to feel that way._ So he gathers them up from all the nook and crannies of his body and shoves them back, somewhere out of touch.

_____ _

But they're there.

_____ _

Watching. Waiting. Seeping in through the cracks.

_____ _

“And you and him?” Jensen asks, abandoning the train of thought, lets it churn in the background. ”How are you with Padalecki?”

_____ _

Danneel shrugs. “Not much different from me and you. Maybe just…” she stops to think, “some small things.”

_____ _

“I'm going to need some spelling out here.”

_____ _

“Yeah,” Danneel grins, face lighting up, brown eyes enveloping Jensen in warmth, in _good_ – if there ever was a reason to believe this Warrior thing – it would be Danneel. She could be any of those things. _Truth. Strength. Peace. “_ We all do. But – and don't mention it to any of my fellow lawyers – I have no way to explain it...it's just – they're just feelings.”

_____ _

Jensen's eyes widen slightly in surprise. “You're a lawyer?”

_____ _

“Hello? _Law school?_ What did you think we learned, elephant handling?”

_____ _

“It would be cool, wouldn't it?” Jensen replies, laughing. “I heard the bit about the law school...I just – you didn't seem –”

_____ _

“Lawyer-y?”

_____ _

Not based on her outfit, at least. Nor her demeanor when she entered the conference room with Padalecki, giggling like a school kid.

_____ _

But based on the quick wit, pointed questions and significantly higher skills in elaborating ideas than yours truly...yes. Jensen now sees it.

_____ _

“Hm. Well, you're an IT guy, right? Hate to say it – you look the furthest thing from it,” Danneel counters, wicked smile playing at the corners of her lips.

_____ _

“I do not.”

_____ _

How can she – Jensen's wearing old, washed out jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt with the human evolutionary process logo, except the last of the humans' back is crooked like the first, leaning in front of a computer.

_____ _

That's, like, the definition of nerdy.

_____ _

“Male model with some quirkiness to him,” Danneel announces, satisfied with herself at the assessment. “Uh-huh. Yes. That's it.”

_____ _

Jensen opens his mouth to reply and ends up looking like a fish. No intelligent replies come to mind.

_____ _

“CEO for some non-profit organization,” Jensen mumbles after a few seconds while he studies the bright blue place mat in front of him.

_____ _

“What?”

_____ _

“That's what I first guessed when I saw you,” Jensen clarifies. “I thought you needed some app to save the baby seals or something.”

_____ _

She raises an eyebrow. “Baby seals?”

_____ _

Jensen shrugs. Some things are better left unsaid. He grins instead.

_____ _

“Is it the clothes?”

_____ _

Jensen shakes his head, then changes his mind. “Somewhat? I don't know. I guess it was the fact that you seemed – shit, I don't know exactly, like... _good people_? That sounds weird.”

_____ _

“Sure. The weirdest today.”

_____ _

Jensen chuckles. “No, but – how often do you categorize people that way? In an instant, no less?”

_____ _

“Almost never,” she agrees.

_____ _

“Right. With you – let's put it this way, when you came in and I thought you were a client, I was pretty sure we weren't even going to talk about the money.”

_____ _

Danneel studies him for a few moments.

_____ _

“What the hell, I'll take it,” she beams. “Might be the nicest thing I ever heard, actually.”

_____ _

“Ever?” As he says it, Jensen mentally smacks himself.

_____ _

But Danneel isn’t fazed. “Ever,” she nods.

_____ _

She's telling the truth; it's not just to appease him.

_____ _

Huh.

_____ _

Jensen's saved from embarrassing himself further by the waiter who deposits delicious smelling things right under their noses.

_____ _

The concreteness of the meal pulls Jensen back, makes him question everything that happened this afternoon, his attempt to dive headfirst into what is, realistically, just a random story. What the fuck _Warrior_ is he, how could he be, or them, when they're so incredibly human?

_____ _

Eating. Drinking. Having awful days, good ones, in-between. No special abilities beyond watching the entire _Vikings_ series in one weekend.

_____ _

But then – just as he takes his fork, he catches a glimpse of his wrist, and the tattoo that wasn't there this morning.

_____ _

Something was very inspired to give Jensen an argument he couldn't reason out, that implacably stated his involvement in this. Otherwise, he guesses that this would be the moment he came to his senses and ran for the hills.

_____ _

_____ _

“Good?” Danneel asks, gently wiping the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

_____ _

“Satisfying.”

_____ _

There’s a pause.

_____ _

“You, my friend, are an asshole.”

_____ _

“I know,” Jensen replies, madman grin twisting his features. “It was really good, Danneel.”

_____ _

It was. Even made Jensen less cranky, returned him to the endorphin rush he gets after running.

_____ _

_Hurricane Moody_ , that's what Chris calls him.

_____ _

“We should do it again, then,” Danneel says, smiling. “I have a hunch that we are going to see each other a lot.”

_____ _

“You think?”

_____ _

She pauses to ponder that question.

_____ _

“I think that this is not something we can just put back in its box...god knows Jared and I tried. So we should just go with it.”

_____ _

“That sounds very simple.”

_____ _

Danneel looks at him, seriousness replacing any hint of earlier mischief.

_____ _

“I'm sure it won't be.”

_____ _


	4. Chapter 4

No dreams. That's the big surprise after yesterday. Nothing. Time, passing from one point to another with Jensen unaware, lost to sleep.

5 AM finds him refreshed. To hell with it, he's almost goddamn happy.

The toaster is a toaster, the coffee machine thankfully only makes coffee, and not thick, crimson liquid like in some of his more interestingmornings. Jensen's mind is almost clear. Only a few thoughts nag at the edges, pulling at the seams of his new understanding.

So he makes coffee and breakfast, revels in the sharp margins of the table – they're not stretching, melting, or doing anything they aren't meant to, _finally –_ and he gets himself ready to go in to work.

Routine.

Except – he spends minutes staring at his right wrist, at the symbol there. He has his house keys looped on one finger, and he's ready to leave...

...but it draws him in. There, inside the skin, under the dark ink, he feels it. Heat.

Hours, _lives_ seem to pass by while Jensen studies it.

And yet, the clock at the subway station says 6:14 – somehow he walked out the door on time.

Like everything about this, it's all about belief.

Which, Jensen's pretty sure – like 95% and change – that he isn't that particular Warrior. If he is part of this thing, he's the _b_ _elieve-but-really-doubt-and-triple-check-first_ Warrior. That's why, when he enters the empty office space at work, he doesn't open his calendar or task list.

He opens Google and types _the legend of the seven warriors._

Jensen's a researcher. He needs to know things. He can't simply go on what Padalecki and Danneel have told him, despite the fact that they were pretty convincing. While he's passed the stage where he thinks the two had a weird, collective psychotic break, they're still strangers. Only the symbol on his wrist reminds him that he just became a subscriber to the crazy.

Padalecki's his boss. A guy he's seen every day for the past three years, and exchanged, maybe ten words besides anything regarding work. _And reacted to with violent distaste from day one for no reason, he reminds himself._ And Danneel – she's nice. But Jensen has just met her. And without her presence, the feeling of trust is only a voice at the back of his mind that advocates for her – a feeble attempt against Jensen's innate inclination towards suspicion.

He finds the second website from yesterday first.

He reads it again. This time, slower, but still there's nothing there that elucidates the newly created mystery. The clues – Padalecki's marks, the infinity sign on the back of his own wrist, and the nameless emotional ties that bind them – are there. The problem is that it feels like Jensen needs to build a house by hand, has 90% percent of the materiales, but doesn't have the faintest idea where to put the first brick.

He figures the new tattoo is a _Sigil._ Padalecki's larger one fits _brothers with threads on their skin_. From the glimpse Jensen got, the lines look like twine strings burned into Padalecki's skin.

But stuff Jensen's not clear on: how does it all fit into the reality he knew until now? Who are the others? Who is what? Or, what is who? Who is he? Why now? Why Padalecki? Can he be this... _thing?_ Can they be? Then, is he human? If not, does he get any cool superpowers out of it? Why would it matter? Even if they were these guys – what, they're gonna live out the sequel to the Avengers?

It's a river of thoughts, currents pulling him in ten different directions, ten reasons to decide and re-decide his stance on the whole thing.

It doesn't help that the only thing he finds after he returns to his search are fragments of the same text, and some Japanese version of what Jensen guesses is the same myth. He's not sure; when his browser asks him if he wants the page automatically translated, he presses yes enthusiastically, only to find a ten-line incoherent string of words that looks to have been written by an illiterate monkey.

Technology. All promises.

Still. Jensen recognizes some words that tell him he's on the right track. _Peace. Fighters. Truth. Guardian. Protectors. Seven. Time. Sacrifice._

Then there's something about a guide. Jensen doesn't get if it's the same portion with the first in the original legend – _Time, Guardian of the Guardians_ , or something else entirely. And something about discipline. From the format of this new text, slipped in between _Truth_ and _Peace_ , Jensen guesses it's a different title for one of the Warriors.

He isn't sure of anything except the fact that by the time he gets to the Halloween-themed site Padalecki had first shown him yesterday, he's ready to call it. Now, there's a broom as a cursor instead of the dark cat with scary eyes. That's all Jensen can take before rubbing forcefully at his eyes and going for a second cup of coffee.

When he returns from the office kitchen – which is designed like the theme was _wake up the unsuspecting employees_ withitsshiny red tile between the standard gray cupboards and stark white tables, and _three_ ginormous coffee machines – the desks around Jensen's have begun to be occupied by their sleepy inhabitants.

There's noise, too, most annoyingly, the one coming from Jensen's own phone. It's vibrating on his desk like it's auditioning for a special phone-themed _So You Think You Can Dance_ edition.

Jensen picks it up, starts to sit down when he sees it's only messages.

Padalecki – three in the last minute.

The fuck happened, that regular email wasn't enough? Receiving personal messages from his boss happens like, never, so Jensen would have been only slightly more surprised at a carrier pigeon coming with it.

_Hey, Jensen. Won't be in the office today, some things to take care of._

Jensen fails to see why this warranted a special message.

_Wanted to make sure you're alright._

Jensen is. Right?

_Wish we could talk today – but weak chance I'll manage to stop by. Tomorrow?_

Why would they...well, besides the obvious.

Jensen's hard-pressed to overcome the instinct of avoiding Padalecki's presence for anything more than pure necessity. But after a glorious morning in which the witch-y broom cursor was the most interesting thing he could find for himself regarding the warrior theory, he takes into consideration such a meeting.

_Did you find anything else?_ is what Jensen types and sends.

The answer comes almost immediately.

_No._ A moment, then another text.

_I was thinking about making a plan to go forward._

A plan sounds great. It'd offer some counter to the chaos in Jensen's brain.

_You want to make sure HR doesn't hear about your latest idea?_ Jensen responds, unable to stop the need to pick at the ridiculousness of everything.

But he has enough decency to panic the second he presses the send button, and a reply doesn't come for at least two minutes.

_Not many people should hear, I think. But you can drop out of it – say we're lunatics and demand an increase in your salary. :)_

Jensen would like not to have been pulled into this shit – but not for the reason Padalecki thinks. It’s not just a re-definement of the carefully constructed world he believes in – but himself, too, a spinning top whose colors melt as it moves, going from steady to hazy in the time it takes to blink.

Jensen's next response is harder to type. He writes, deletes, repeats the process half a dozen times.

_There's something to it._

That's the only thing he's willing to admit freely right now.

_To an increase in salary?_

What? No. How would Padalecki – oh. Jensen forgot to cram into the message the whole damn train of thoughts that led to that conclusion in his mind.

_No. To…all of it._

He's pretty sure that's not much more clear. But, well, Jensen's not ready to drop the words _warrior_ or _mythical_ in casual texting. No, thank you, those have free entry only in his head.

Jensen doesn't know what to think when a reply doesn't come for the rest of the day. Exaggerated amounts of pride cut short any attempt to send a new message, so Jensen simmers in uncertainty.

Jensen does the only thing he can: tries his luck again with research on darker parts of the web, finds absolutely nothing more about his new interest, and decides to actually work instead.

He's so caught up in lines of code and banishing errors that he almost jumps out of his chair when his phone buzzes.

It's Chris.

_Tomorrow @ 6._

Well, at least something is clear in his schedule for tomorrow: running.

Jensen doesn't answer – Chris is simply a reminder alert at this point.

He quickly checks the whole inbox again, but, no, in the conversation with Padalecki, the last reply is his.

Jensen doesn't know whether it's their short exchange or the tangled thoughts when it comes to Padalecki that are making him so anxious. Both, probably.

Jensen doesn't get any new message that evening. He wonders if he should have done something more. Said something else. Maybe, if he were different – if he could bypass his instinctive belligerence to the man – maybe they could have an actual conversation. One that Jensen would understand completely, that did not leave possibilities meandering in his mind and body and tingling sensations in his arms and chest.

It's fascinating, how the relationship with Padalecki takes more space in his mind than the legend thing. When he brushes his teeth and sees the edges of the black loop on the inside of his wrist, he doesn't think anything of it.

It's part of him. Inherently, like nothing else ever – it's his. Watching the symbol, Jensen feels like it moves, like the dark ribbon is alive, an endless motion over the same two circles, an end equal to its beginning. He feels connected _,_ and this time, it's not to other people, not to anything in particular. Just the universe, carving out a spot for him, inviting, welcoming.

The dreams that night are simpler.

Sharper.

Green, and mountains. Grass, and off-white ribbons of snow on mighty peaks. Paths. Six. He watches from above, then from _inside_ _._ He's walking along the paths on the ground between them, then crosses, stands in the middle just to watch silhouettes dance around him. Contours drawn in pencil, colors smudged. Still no sound. Only images.

“You look good, Ackles. What'd you do?” Chris greets him the next morning.

Jensen answers simply. “Sleep.”

His old friend looks at him carefully. Then shrugs, and proceeds to jump in place like he's going for the slam dunk MVP.

“We still on for the game tomorrow evening?” Jensen asks, ripple of thoughts prompting a change in course completely.

“Yeah. Your place, right?”

He nods.

Saturday evenings. Sports. Takeout food. Chris and his partner on the force Adrienne, and Jensen. Mindless, blessed routine. Jensen needs it – he's under no impression things are not going to go to hell in a handbasket with the myth thing while he blinks – so he’s going to take his quiet moments whenever he can, fill up on what he can already see as _past_.

The present is enough. For now.

They don't talk much on this morning’s run, contrary to habit. Chris seems too dumbstruck that Jensen is actually managing to keep up with him, and Jensen splits his energy between breathing regularly, trying to avoid a counter-intuitive exercise-induced heart attack, and analyzing his relationship with Chris.

Could Chris be part of it?

Jensen has trouble associating the way he feels about Chris with his reaction to either Padalecki or Danneel. It's the same as comparing apples to oranges. Or any fruit in the goddamn fridge. Whatever. Metaphors aren't his strong point in the mornings.

The thing is that his friendship with Chris Kane is years of evenings and mornings and all the time in between. It's not a response, it's not an attitude, it's not about questioning. It's a cemented link made up of everything Jensen has been and couldn't be, beginning with the moment Chris was a brother to a scared foster kid. It's the times after, when he pushed Jensen, when he forced Jensen to fend for himself, to _be something_. When said _I knew you could do it_.

A constant presence in Jensen's life, in Jensen's mind, in _everything._

Even his dreams.

Maybe. Maybe Chris is a Warrior. Out of all of them, he's the one who could be.

_Strength_.

That's Jensen's bet.

But if he needs to turn Chris' world upside down, he'll surely find a better moment for it than when the guy is complaining of a pulled hamstring.

Time stretches, a pleasant, steady cover for the day's activities.

Holding the door for Aldis and Ike.

Subway ride. Black Sabbath's _Paranoid._ Walking to his desk.

A light blue post-it stuck on one of his monitors: _Find me – JP_ _._

Jensen puts down his rucksack, shoves it under his desk, and rips the post-it from the screen. Would it kill Padalecki to include, I don't know, _details?_ For a minute, Jensen wonders if he should go for coffee or straight to Padalecki's office.

He decides that Padalecki will be enough of a wake-up kick and forgoes additional adrenaline.

Note still in hand, Jensen walks the fifteen feet from his desk to the hallway. He looks through the glass walls along it. The turquoise carpet that is a compromise of color leads to the door that reads _CEO, kndbee._ Padalecki's name doesn't appear.

Through the meticulously clean glass Jensen sees Padalecki absorbed in the piles of paper burying his desk. Jensen knocks. When Padalecki looks up, a little dazed, Jensen waves the blue post-it in his hand.

White shirt open at the collar. A gaze that meets Jensen's, action without thought. Realization. His boss nods, gets up.

Maybe Padalecki forgets.

Or maybe Jensen does.

Either way, when Padalecki pulls on the door, and Jensen finds himself only an arm’s length away, the world tilts on its axis. No dramatics; Jensen's view of his surroundings narrows, and his feet suddenly renounce their job of supporting him.

His heartbeat turns up the volume and its soundtrack is in his ears, deafening Jensen to anything else.

He stumbles back, meets the hallway wall with a dull thud.

It’s pure panic, and it finds a nest inside Jensen's brain. A dark, harrowing fear that envelops every last inch of his body with its strength. Unexplained, slippery wreckage of ideas that escape Jensen as he tries to find an anchor in the present moment.

He blinks.

The world around him comes back to the original setting dozens of frames later. Padalecki’s backed up to the edge of his desk, chest heaving.

_Leave_.

A voice in his mind, urging Jensen to run, be anywhere but there, so close to the man in front of him. The _why_ is simple. The sense of foreboding, the pitch-black emptiness that stretches ahead of Jensen, time compressed, suddenly nonexistent when there's not enough distance.

But there's something else there. Something stronger still.

A curiosity that roots Jensen to the spot, a part of him that wants to know what this is.

_Why_ _,_ truly, this is.

“Starfish,” Padalecki croaks out, and Jensen would have assumed that his boss' synapses suffered irreparable damage if all their conference rooms weren't named after sea creatures.

Jensen doesn't wait for him, walks to the opposite end of the hallway. Alona raises her gaze from her desk, watches as Jensen crosses in front of the human resources office. She smiles.

When Jensen proves physically incapable of responding, brain sending no command to the rest of his body besides the ones necessary for walking, she frowns. Questions Jensen wordlessly.

By some miracle, he manages to meet her gaze, shake his head.

It's enough.

He gets to the door of the _Starfish_ room, a duplicate of the _Octopus_ conference room, only in reduced dimensions. The table here is round, not oval, and there are only five chairs around it, rather than eight – which is the reason for its name. A whiteboard on a concrete wall replaces the big screen. But the rest is the same. Same chairs, same atmosphere that gives Jensen a sense of normalcy.

He chooses the farthest chair from the entrance to avoid any more close encounters with Padalecki. Mechanically, he sits down, fixes his gaze through two layers of glass on a hazy point discernible in the programmers' space, which buzzes with the signs of morning coffee-fueled activity.

Jensen doesn't know how long he sits like that, immovable, thoughts avoiding any form of coherency.

The sound of footsteps comes from outside, from the right. Jensen doesn't miss Padalecki's hand on the door handle staying just a beat too long, hesitation under his boss' fingertips.

But when Padalecki enters the room his features are composed in a serious expression, no fear in his eyes or his gestures, not in the slightest bit.

“Are you okay?” he asks Jensen, sitting in the farthest chair across the table from Jensen.

It's uncomfortable still. But bearable.

Jensen's heartbeat has returned to normal. Jensen nods. “Yes. I'm fine.”

He wants to ask the same thing of Padalecki. But words don't come.

“That was,” Padalecki whispers, after a few moments of silence, “Unexpected.”

“You think so?”

Jensen doesn't mean for that to come out challenging. But it does.

“I mean, I knew...I knew that we've stayed physically distant for a reason,” Padalecki answers, looking at his joined fingers resting on the table, “but I didn't imagine that it would be like...that.”

Padalecki's right. The unbelievably strong physical sensation, utter shock to the whole system – it wasn't what Jensen had in mind, either. His worst-case scenario involved someone throwing an unsolicited punch.

That seems stupid now.

“Yeah, that wasn't normal,” Jensen says, conceding.

“That is what I wanted to talk to you about, in a sense. I think we need to decide how we go forward from here.”

That's very diplomatic CEO talk. Jensen actually needs specifics.

“Go forward? What does that mean?”

Padalecki grimaces.

Yeah. Jensen knows. They're communicating like they speak completely different languages.

“I wanted to know if you wanted to pursue this,” he says, gesturing loosely with his right hand. “I'm asking if you believe the story we showed you and that it relates to us.”

Jensen pauses for a moment. Does he?

“I believe that there are things that can't be ignored.”

“That's fair,” Padalecki nods.

And keeps staring at Jensen.

After seconds, Jensen has had enough. “What?”

“There was another question in there.”

“Right. And that was?”

“If you want to find out more.”

Jensen can't stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Of course I do.”

“I meant as a team. With me and Danneel.”

It's heartwarming, really. If he and Padalecki could actually stay within two feet of each other and not feel like they have an appointment with Death.

Jensen says as much.

“This doesn't work,” he tells Padalecki, gesturing between them. “So how are we going to do what you’re proposing?”

Padalecki leans back in his chair.

“I don't know,” he shrugs, “But we'll figure it out.”

“And how do you think we'll do that?”

Jensen doesn't take special pleasure in being... _combative_. It's just the way he is. Or the way he is with Padalecki.

“Jensen, I don't think it helps if I tell you again that I don't know.”

Jensen answers without thinking. “You're right. It doesn't.”

There’s a pause, tension strung out just enough for both to sense the change a straightforwardly aggressive answer brings.

However, Padalecki’s calm. He pins Jensen to the spot with whiskey-colored eyes.

“What is your problem with me, Jensen?”

Yep. Should have expected it.

Jensen feels his heartbeat going crazy on him again.

He doesn't know if it's frustration, anger, or fear.

He doesn't really want to lose this job – the Warrior thing might not pan out.

“I mean,” Padalecki continues, “I get that there's this actual, physical thing that bothers us. That I can understand. But you.re talking to me like I’ve done you a personal wrong.”

Apparently, his boss has been paying close attention to him.

Fantastic.

“I don't know,” Jensen says, an answer that is too honest, even for himself. “I really don't know why – it's just how you make me react.”

“So it's my fault.”

Jensen doesn't know if it's a joke – corners of Padalecki's lips are lifted slightly – or it's a push towards the snowball that causes the avalanche. Contrary to his instincts, he takes the safe route.

“No, it's not. It's – “

How do you tell your boss about feelings with roots in the deepest parts of memory? Feelings that seem integral to Jensen’s identity? Strokes on a canvas. Bright, sunny yellow for the dreams. Night sky black, stars shining, distant hopes in a dark sea, for moments when he gets too close, physically, to Padalecki. Stained glass in lilac, red, translucent, glittering, sharp, silver, orange. 

Indiscernible, endless, harrowing white for the anger that twists his insides, comes up his throat with claws, an anger directed solely at Padalecki, coated in something else – something that Jensen has no clue how to figure out, a color that he doesn’t yet have, a responsibility to think it out.

“Look – I'll try to be less of an ass,” Jensen voices out loud, and he's committed to that.

“Right,” his boss answers, but doesn't seemed very convinced of Jensen's good intentions.

Smart.

“Since we clarified _that_ ,” Padalecki continues, sarcasm slipping in, clearly referring to the fact they clarified exactly zero things in this discussion, “I'm coming back to the initial question. Team, or not?”

“Are there really options?”

Padalecki raises an eyebrow, but Jensen hurries to correct what was an honest question.

“I mean, the way I see it – if the … _story_ is true, it doesn't seem like we have much of a choice.”

“True, but it's only three of us, anyway – Danneel and I can do more research on our own and come back to you in a while. When we have more.”

It's Jensen's turn to purse his lips in disagreement. “I don't think that's efficient.”

Padalecki motions for him to continue.

“Whatever this is, shit happens when we're together.” Tattoos appearing out of nowhere, big and small. Urges to flee, never to come back. Interesting stuff. “I think that Danneel was right.”

Padalecki looks at him, confused. “Danneel – what?”

“She told me you're looking at people who give you the same reaction. And that one of those people is her ex-husband.”

“She told you about Tahmoh.”

Jensen nods. “Yeah.”

Padalecki ponders that for a moment. “And you think meeting him is our next step?”

“You and I have been in the same office for three years and neither one of us suddenly sported ink…then you meet Danneel and wham, you’re both decorated. She was married to this guy and it doesn’t sound like they developed magical tattoos…so maybe there’s some specific group, or sequence, we have to meet in.”

“All right,” Padalecki agrees, satisfied. “In that case, I think that you should go with Danneel to talk to Tahmoh.”

“And you?”

It kind of defeats the whole point Jensen was trying to make about the reason for doing it together.

But Padalecki seems to read his mind and shrugs. “It worked well enough when there were just two of us.”

“It might not this time.”

What if some undeniable proof _doesn't_ appear? What then? Then how do they know Tahmoh is involved? How does Tahmoh know they're telling the truth?

“Just try,” is all Padalecki says.

Jensen huffs. “That's your solution?”

“Best one I have.” Then, after a while, “Do you think that we can do this any other way?”

Jensen has trouble figuring out if it's an honest question or retaliation for his own response.

He gets his answer very quickly.

“I think today proved that you and I don't mix well...not in close encounters, at least,” Padalecki continues, harsh words but a smile softening his features. “So I have trouble seeing how we can realistically do things all together in a way that is not overly complicated.”

“Complicated?”

Padalecki's brows furrow. “Taking different cars, standing on opposite sides of the room at all times...”

Grudgingly, Jensen admits that seems to be more hassle than it's worth. He doesn't even know why he was protesting, it isn't like Padalecki's presence is something he voluntarily advocates for.

“But...still, you're just going to watch from the sidelines?”

See, that was meant to be a way to ask Padalecki if he's good with the arrangement. Or probe into the fact that Padalecki doesn't seem to share the same curiosity and eagerness Jensen has in figuring this out. Instead, like most of his remarks, Jensen's words sound like an accusation. And, like always, Padalecki completely ignores them, takes only the essence. Patience was given to the right man. Thank you, universe.

“I'm looking into something...someone else,” he says, shaking his head.

Jensen arches an eyebrow.

Padalecki responds to the unspoken question, albeit a little reluctantly. “An old friend.”

“Do you think he's involved with this?”

He shrugs. “I haven't seen him in a long time...I don't know what to think.”

Jensen hates that suddenly, Padalecki becomes exponentially less talkative. It probably shows, because his boss, defeated, begins to talk again.

“I – it's not that I don't want to tell you, Jensen. It's that I have no idea if it will pan out. If we're going by these connections, it could be a person for any one of us, not only me. So I don't want to jump in, involve people that might not need to be part of it.”

Jensen thinks that's sensible. After all, wasn't that his own reasoning for not telling Chris?

He nods. “Okay. Then I'll go with Danneel. And see how that turns out.”

“Good,” is all Padalecki says, a cautious smile spreading over his features. “We'll keep in touch, then. All three of us.”

“Yeah. Should make a group chat or something.”

“And encrypt it the hell out of it.”

Despite himself, Jensen responds with a chuckle. “Definitely that.”

He's pretty sure the _kndbee_ stock would plummet if it were ever to leak that the CEO thinks he has a secret identity as an otherworldly being – along with one of his employees and a random woman he met in a bar.

And the delusion is spreading.


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday morning finds Jensen with a hell of a neck ache courtesy of the ungodly position he'd fallen asleep in, propped up on a stack of throw pillows, still dressed in jeans and his favorite t-shirt. It’s the one with the pi symbol on the front, duplicated four times, and underneath, written in italic letters, _Octopi._ Male model with a quirky side, Jensen's ass.

His tablet is face down on his stomach, clue to his before-sleep activity last night – searching for _unusual reactions to your boss_. Worded a little differently after Jensen got recommendations for ‘power dynamic erotica’. 

He had started with searching for explanations to the physical symptoms - that led to the obvious topics of _anxiety_ and _panic attacks_. Well, yeah. Padalecki causes both. Web MD and about ten other sites didn't offer any exact clue to Jensen's quest, but stories with adjacent relevance to his did.

That is, Jensen was comforted by knowing that there are people who have the same strong reactions to other people.

But, unfortunately, it's generally in the back of dark alleys, looking at crazed madmen brandishing knives. Then it's okay if your brain tells you to _run, right the fuck now, you’re gonna die._ It’s goddamn sensible, is what it is. But not in front of – by all appearances – a harmless man who happens to be your boss.

Whatever.

Jensen rubs his hand over his face to clear the cobwebs from his eyes. When he takes his palm away, something catches his attention.

_Sand. His fingertips, smudges of charcoal._

Jensen blinks.

Stares at his hands.

There's sand escaping through his fingers, like he'd just picked it up from the beach. But it's dark. Metallic grains catching the light of the sunrise peeking through the bedroom window.

_Soft._

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck fuck.

Right now, he'd embrace the earlier diagnosis of panic attacks with open arms. This – full-on hallucinations – is a whole other enchilada.

Jensen doesn't know how much time he spends sitting there, inky black sand crawling over his fingertips and cascading towards the floor. Even when it finally stops – when Jensen feels breath returning to his body – he remains frozen in the same spot.

Clean floor, clean hands.

Jensen curses loudly, barely refrains from putting his fist through the nearest wall.

He’d say he needs a drink, if he thought that would help.

_You're not crazy._

_You're fine._

Jensen sets up a mental soundtrack to get him through a hot shower, grocery shopping, cursorily cleaning the apartment for the evening’s company, the phone call to order Chinese takeout when he decides he can’t deal with cooking after all. Finally, an exchange of messages with Danneel to set a meeting with Tahmoh.

It’s all done almost on autopilot – he’d set his mind to the tasks the day before, and now, some Martha Stewart part of him that (gratefully) wasn’t scared off by the day’s beginning, executed the plan.

But when there’s nothing more to do, only wait for his friends to arrive, the fear of the episode happening again and the shame at having them at all barge through his mind. There's a chance that the terrifying, nameless things aren't just his. That there is something bigger that Jensen is part of that makes sense of all of it. That's what Padalecki and Danneel are proposing, or, at least, what Jensen needs it to be. He doesn't acknowledge the thought that hacks away at his desperate hope, the thought that asks him _what if it's not? what if you're just...wrong?_

Chris and Adrienne ring the doorbell.

_They're your friends. They'd understand._

He greets his friends with a tense smile that he hopes passes for a genuine one.

_No, they wouldn't._

_It's not normal._

Jensen doesn't let the turmoil show on his face. It's improbable to the point of impossible that either Chris and Adrienne would be able to help in any way. 

“Only ten spring rolls? I thought you'd learned how to do this, Ackles,” Adrienne chastises, roaming through the takeout options and picking with her chopsticks through the troubling box with the insufficient spring rolls.

Jensen shrugs, concentrating on finding the right channel on TV. “There are about ten other things you can eat.”

“But these are my favorite.”

“So, eat them.”

Adrienne looks at him. “All of them?” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Don't tempt me.”

Jensen laughs, leaves Chris to stare daggers at his partner and the shrinking dinner portions in front of him. They're spread out in Jensen's living room, Chris and Adrienne on the carpeted floor, and Jensen stretching out as best he can on the small sofa behind them.

The usual spots. The usual chatter.

“Will you ever get enough food to last us through the first quarter? ” Chris asks.

“Not my fault you're a bottomless pit, Chris. I get a normal amount,” Jensen defends himself.

But Chris isn't listening to his retort. His gaze is riveted on Jensen's outstretched hand, the one holding the remote.

It takes absurdly long for Jensen to realize why Chris is staring.

“Didn't tell me that you got a tattoo, Jensen.”

Oh.

“It wasn't something planned,” Jensen hurries to reply under Chris' scrutinizing stare and Adrienne's curious one. Her interest in the conversation is caught, no doubt, by the word _tattoo_. By Chris' reaction, you'd think Jensen had gotten a full, colorful sleeve.

“That's not a tattoo, Kane, that's a marker drawing, chill,” Adrienne comments, unhelpfully.

Her point is undermined by the fact that the skin on both of Adrienne’s arms is covered in black, thin-lined mandal intertwined, a wonderfully drawn geometric that has mesmerized Jensen since he’d known her.

Chris' gaze returns to her. “Thank you for your input, Ink Master. But if you'd known Mister Volatile here for longer, you'd get that it's a big deal.”

“Volatile?”

“Inconstant. Impermanent. _Volatile,_ ” Chris nods.

“Steal a thesaurus from someone, Chris?” Jensen tries to divert his friend.

“The word-a-day app paying off, yeah,” Chris deadpans. “Point is, you left these walls blank,” he continues, gesturing with the chopsticks in his right hand to the room around them, “And you literally have ten furniture objects in your whole house, and they're too fucking small…”

“Not a point in sight,” Adrienne interrupts, completely unconcerned, devouring spring rolls like it's her purpose in life.

Jensen struggles not to laugh. Chris doesn't share the amusement.

“Point is, Jensen doesn't do anything that remotely hints at being permanent. He's a nomad.”

Adrienne frowns. “What does furniture have to do with that?”

Chris looks at her in exasperation and, Jensen's happy to see his friend's attention drawn to something other than himself.

But Chris is right.

On his own, Jensen wouldn't have done it, gotten a tattoo, or anything he'd have to carry with him all his life. Jensen's life...he doesn't see it as one, long continuous thread. His life is a staccato rhythm that doesn't lend itself to anything permanent, be it tattoos, furniture, or thoughts.

“We'll talk about this later,” Chris says, his eyes locked with Jensen's.

“Wouldn't have it any other way, Sergeant.”

 _Hopefully, by then, I'll know what to say_ , Jensen thinks to himself, motioning for them to shut up and watch the goddamn game.

Jensen's still working on the _it-was-something-unforeseen_ for his explanation when Chris ambushes him in the kitchen. He's disposing of the containers when he hears the sound of a bottle hitting the marble kitchen counter.

“So, you joined a cult or something?”

Jensen turns.

“Yes, it's called work, meetings are Monday to Friday, nine to five,” Jensen says, tone bland.

Chris' eyebrows climb up to his hairline. “This is a work thing?”

Jensen gives an ambiguous nod.

Well, it's true enough.

“What, you and Padalecki buried the hatchet and celebrated with a night out?”

“Crazy one,” Jensen nods.

Chris studies Jensen's face. “It's a good thing I know you, or I'd make the mistake of actually believing what you say.”

Jensen snickers – it's good to have people who know you that well. Then, turning serious again, “I'll tell you, Chris. But not now. When I figure it out.”

“Pssh,” Chris replies, huffing and picking up his beer bottle again. “If I wait for you to figure anything out, I'll die stupid.”

“And drunk.”

“I wish. The hell kind of beer you buy? Tastes like piss...piss _light_.”

Jensen presses his lips together. “You never tire of complaining, do you, Kane?”

“It's one of my better qualities.”

And, because Jensen finds no intelligent reply to that, he uses Chris as target practice for the towel in his hand.

It's too bad the asshole has the reflexes – and the lucidity – to duck.

A short but loud chime.

That's what greets Jensen Sunday morning, 7 AM on the dot. He fumbles under the pillow, extracts his phone from the depths it had slid into overnight, and stares at the screen.

_Your invitation is waiting – talk to your friends now!_

Jensen blinks. Twice. First to chase away the haziness of sleep, and second, to assure himself this is not a figment created by his overactive brain. Not that he'd know the difference.

He expands the small notification rectangle to read the first line of the email.

_Jared Padalecki has invited you to join the conversation! Follow the link below –_

Oh. He remembers.

Jensen lets his head fall back on the pillow, swipes the notification into non-existence. He throws his phone somewhere he can't see it on the large bed.

But, apparently, Jensen is the only one who has a healthy definition of sleeping schedules on the weekends, because in the next five seconds, his phone chimes again.

This time Jensen ignores it completely.

He can’t fall back asleep, though, so he gets up and makes a pot of coffee. Then sits at his nice kitchen island, and reads articles on his laptop about magical symbols.

The silence around Jensen is still, empty of any meaning. It's just him, and that manages to finally give him some peace.

The cruel return to reality happens on Monday. Granted, today Jensen feels less like he was thrown in the middle of an MMA cage fight, like he usually does at the start of the week, and more like he's graciously skating towards the public and its applause, courtesy of a slow Sunday that recharged his batteries.

But, still. Down time has...well, its downsides – tasks that should have been tackled earlier, and that have now piled up.

Two new messages on the Padalecki group chat he'd activated last night.

A dozen overdue work emails – _important_ changed its definition significantly in the last week – and a short one from Chris, marked with a date and time of yesterday morning.

Jensen, decided that today's the day to get shit done, sits down at his desk, and starts with the easiest one.

_From: Christian Kane <_ [ _chris.kpd@_ _ny_ _pd.com_ ](mailto:chris.kpd@domain.com) _>_

_Subject: Waiting_

_Were you kidnapped by aliens and marked as the chosen one?_

Jensen hits reply.

_Yes. That's exactly what happened. I felt so special._

That done, he turns his attention to the work issues. Those are notably less creative, but, overall, easy to solve. It takes him a few hours, but by the end, he's the poster child for motivational mantras, might as well have Nike's _Just do it_ tattooed on his forehead.

Just _did_ it, Jensen thinks to himself, aware that a co-worker seeing his random smile will wonder what is wrong with him.

Next. Tattoos. Or the real looney-bin stuff.

From Sunday mid-afternoon:

_danneel_harris: Putting this on here so Jared can see. Tuesday, still good for the meet?_

Sunday evening:

_danneel_harris: Jensen?_

He should have replied earlier. He types a quick message now. _Yeah. Tomorrow. Sorry._

Danneel replies half an hour later with a thumbs-up and a smiley face.

Padalecki doesn’t respond, though the app informs all other participants which recipients had seen a particular message. Padalecki's name is written in small letters under them all.

Jensen spends most of the rest of the day pondering whether Padalecki's trying to give Jensen space, or the man simply doesn't have time to respond to things that, in fact, don't really require his input.

It's hard to pinpoint which of the options Jensen prefers. Although their recent meetings had resulted in sparks, there's a new feeling emerging in Jensen, fueled by the part of him that _reacts,_ but doesn't comprehend to _what_. A beginning of an addiction to something. Something Jensen knows is bad – but can't renounce. Jensen doesn't like Padalecki. But, at the same time, his absence carves a spot in Jensen's chest that fills with an impossible mix of dread and relief.

The rain is a gentle but persistent companion to Jensen's walk to the university campus.

Tahmoh, Danneel’s husband… _ex-husband_ \- is a law professor there and has agreed to meet the two of them after classes. Jensen thought this was a good call on Danneel’s part – meeting at _kndbee_ headquarters would have felt like an initiation into a cult.

Jensen deliberately doesn't think about what pretext Danneel used to get him to meet, or about what comes next.

He puts one foot in front of the other on the narrow stone path until he arrives at the immense Roman columns that mark the building’s entrance, and chooses a sheltered spot, absently running a hand through his shortly cropped hair to dry it out.

Danneel arrives ten minutes later, shielding her head from the rain with a thin gray briefcase. She looks nothing like the hippie chick Jensen had met just a few days ago. She wears a long, elegant pine-green coat paired with black, pointed stilettos and a fitted honey-colored dress revealed by the open coat. Had Jensen met her dressed like this first, the lawyer option would have been one of his first guesses. It’s a crisp, sharp outfit that Jensen guesses lends more credibility in a room with a judge than a frilly top.

The click of her heels on the entrance steps stops. A pair of dark brown irises almost at eye level lets Jensen know that Danneel's donned too many inches in footwear for him to even grasp how it is possible to walk.

“Hey,” she greets him, smiling while she shakes her head to get rid of some errant raindrops. “Sorry I'm late. Court took longer than I thought.”

Jensen nods, own smile forming involuntarily. “Hey.”

Seeing Danneel now, she's different. But what hasn't changed is the feeling her presence instills in Jensen. A comfort he can't explain, a trust that has no acceptable reason given the circumstances.

“Shall we?” she asks, tilting her head towards the big, carved wooden doors that look like they were designed for Hagrid, not regular humans.

He follows her through the labyrinth of corridors. From the outside, the building looks old. But the inside is modern in its simplicity: white walls, tall mahogany doors, and announcement boards covered with patches of light blue, red, and yellow.

They reach the middle of a shadow-filled hallway, light diffused from the recessed lighting in the ceiling.

“Here?” Jensen asks, to hear his own voice.

Danneel nods and reaches for the handle of the door under number 207. But she stops with her hand on the metal, the quiet, soothing fluidity of her movements suddenly gone.

“Danneel?”

“Uh-huh,” she whispers. “Give me two seconds.”

Jensen does.

He clasps his hands together in front of him awkwardly, waiting. Counting. He reaches twelve Mississippis when Danneel finally presses on the handle.

Jensen breathes, relieved. He's the wrong guy to be present if pep talks are needed.

They enter the sizeable lecture hall, a faint sour smell hitting Jensen's nostrils. Ah, the joys of windowless auditoriums that hold large groups of boys barely past adolescence. Jensen remembers those days without nostalgia.

“Hey, T,” Danneel says, her confident voice now oddly hesitant.

The man sitting at the long desk at the front of the hall is wearing a striped blue shirt and smoke-gray-colored blazer. Broad-shouldered, muscular, eyes tinted in sun-kissed nuances of the clear sea.

Jensen doesn't know what Danneel feels when she approaches the man, but he is hit with a sudden feeling of nausea as the white of the walls merges with the blackboard behind the desk, the whole image sliding a few frames further in time. Jensen blinks to find the mesmerizing eyes staring right at him.

“...is Jensen Ackles,” Danneel's voice draws Jensen back to reality.

Jensen raises his right hand, mumbles a “Hello” while he assesses the room, tries to figure out whether it's going to play tricks on him again.

“He's a friend,” Danneel explains, apparently not subject to the same reaction as Jensen.

“You told me,” the professor replies coldly.

Jensen can't see Danneel’s face, but if that low, harsh tone has the same effect on her as it does on Jensen, Jensen guesses her answering expression is not exactly friendly. She makes a sudden turn towards the coal-black lecture chairs, walks the few feet until the nearest one and deposits her briefcase there. Jensen follows her lead to another first-row seat.

He sits down. Danneel continues to stand.

Some reaction there is for her, too – the calm Jensen had known until now as her default is replaced by agitation – nope, not agitation, Jensen thinks, _anger –_ as she turns fiery eyestoward the man at the desk again.

“Did you read what I sent you?”

The man lets a few papers slide from his fingers, presumably investing more than he initially wanted in the current conversation.

“Yes, I did.”

“And?”

“And I think you've lost your mind, Danni.”

 _This is promising_ , Jensen thinks.

“You know there are some things...things that we've wondered about. And they fit,” Danneel says, voice back to a semblance of the confident, smooth tone.

Jensen deduces that she sent him the legend's text, and Tahmoh is in favor of checking both of them into a mental facility.

But Jensen has no idea what _things that fit_ Danneel is talking about, and the turn in conversation makes him feel awkward, an unintended spectator to something intimate. Truth be told, Jensen had realized seconds after they entered that he's an adjacent piece to this particular pair, not at the center of it. Tahmoh and Danneel concentrate the air around them in something dense, thick with things left unsaid and disproportionately intense emotions, given the setting.

So Jensen chooses to just watch from a safe distance.

“What fits? Our first date? That's what you're talking about?”

Danneel nods.

“That leads you to believe this fantasy?”

“Not just that.”

“We have some convincing evidence,” she finishes, turning towards Jensen, and making an almost imperceptible sign towards her right wrist.

Right. Jensen does have a role in this.

He straightens up in the chair and, carefully, raises the sleeves of his jacket enough for the infinity symbol to be visible. He turns it outwards, hoping that Tahmoh can see it from where he is.

“I'd have the same reaction as you to all this,” Jensen starts, because, well, he did have it, “but it's pretty hard to argue when this just...appeared.”

The professor studies him. If Jensen's not mistaken, there's a curiosity in his eyes when they rest on the black ink.

However, what he says is, “I don't know how you expect me to take that at face value.”

“Simply,” Jensen answers.

Tahmoh raises an eyebrow.

“Look, man,” Jensen addresses him with his usual lack of respect for authority, “We think there's a connection between us,” and he points to himself and Danneel, “That can't really be explained otherwise. And Danneel thinks you might be part of it, too, so...here we are.”

Great communication, Jensen, A+.

“What if I choose not to be connected?”

“What?” Jensen frowns.

Danneel's ex envelops them both with his gaze, expression rigid.

“I don't want to be part of it. Whatever _it_ is. Have you considered that?”

Honestly?

No. Never even crossed Jensen's mind.

But Jensen's an avid reader of fantasy stories and Viking movies, so the idea of a Warrior-Magic-Heroes trio dragged that part of him to the forefront. Jensen _wants_ to be part of it. Needs that sense of belonging to something. The fact that he doesn't dare to accept it fully, well, that's another matter entirely.

“Why?” Danneel asks, still standing, hands on her hips.

Combative recognizes combative.

But Tahmoh doesn't react with the same intensity, just leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, challenging.

Dannel huffs. “Oh, right. I forgot. Everything has to make sense for you, you can't just trust me.”

“Trust you? On _this_ , Danneel? How?” the professor asks, shaking his head.

She raises her arms in frustration, and the volume of her voice with it. “You don't have to believe it straight up – you just need to believe that I'm not crazy and look into it.”

“I think that was part of husband duties...which I no longer have, as per your request, Danni.”

“You –”

 _Asshole_ , Jensen completes Danneel's exclamation mentally. This is going from bad to worse, making Jensen wonder if they – _he –_ shouldbe here, if they haven't made a mistake in talking to Tahmoh about their collective fantasy.

But. It doesn't feel like it’s wrong. Jensen felt _something_. Or it's something he self-suggested he feel and they are indeed, all, crazy.

“You should think about what I said, T, ” Danneel's voice cuts through Jensen's musings. “You know there's something to it.”

And, with that, she picks up her briefcase, and turns to leave. Jensen takes a moment to catch up, but then jumps up, following.

They exit without another word.

Hopefully this is a winning strategy.

“Uh,” Jensen dares to voice when they finally stop outside the building entrance, at the initial spot of their meeting. “You all right?”

Padalecki would be better at this. It's one thing Jensen's sure the guy does better than him. Empathize.

But Danneel looks up, smiling, though a little forced and somewhat sadly.

“I'm fine,” she nods. “Believe it or not, that is exactly how I expected it to go.”

Jensen's eyes widen in surprise.

“Could have warned me about it.”

“I didn't want to color your impression in any way,” she replies, this time outright smirking.

Jensen laughs. “Oh, thank you.”

She returns a more lively grin, and tilts her head towards the foggy darkness that stretches out in front of them, inviting. Droplets of rain glimmer in front of them, sparks in an otherwise bleary evening.

They start walking.

“So. You think...?” Jensen begins, not sure how to continue. Not entirely sure what Danneel's state of mind is.

She shakes her head thoughtfully. “I don't know. My instincts tell me he's one of us. But I don't know how to convince him of it.”

“Might not work that way.”

“Hm?” Danneel turns her head. “What way?”

“Trying to convince him. Maybe he needs to come to his own conclusions.”

“I'm not –” she protests, then stops, taking a deep breath. “I'm not trying to force anything on him.” Jensen hears what she doesn’t say: _I know I'm right and I want him to see it._

Jensen doesn't reply, still processing what had just happened. On one hand, he wishes this would be easy, and their assurances would carry weight with the professor, and he'd join in. It would give them a new certainty in what they're doing. On the other, Jensen’s objective enough – more so than Danneel – to know that reactions vary.

“How about you?” Danneel asks after a few moments of loaded silence.

“For what it’s worth, I did feel… _something_ …when I walked in the auditorium.” He doesn’t want to explain _nausea_ and _time-slipping_ , but when Danneel waits for more he allows, “Not instant…” he finds himself awkwardly admitting, “…trust like with you. More like discomfort. Not as bad as with Padalecki. Though I didn’t get as close to your ex, to be fair.”

Danneel hops over a puddle in what qualifies as an extreme sport in those goddamn heels. “Right. Jensen, where are you with all this?”

He shrugs, carefully avoiding the same spot filled with muddy water. He goes around, but his sneakers sink into the wet grass. He curses instead of answering Danneel's question.

She continues, “Honestly…I thought you'd changed your mind when you didn't answer in the group chat...with Jared and stuff, I thought maybe it was too much.”

“No, no. Padalecki...I can handle him.”

_Approximately._

_At a distance of about twenty feet._

“There's...” he starts, and has no idea what prompts him to continue, he hadn't planned on sharing, “I get these dreams. They're becoming more...real. Harder to deal with. They put me out of commission sometimes.”

 _They lock me in my own head_ , Jensen can’t quite say.

Danneel stays silent as they pass several storefronts, the sound of footsteps and rain filling the silence.

Then, looking at Jensen under the dim light of a street lamp, she asks a question that makes Jensen feel like she understands. That their brains are handling this bizarre twist of their lives in a similar fashion.

“Do you think there is any way to un-know what Jared showed us? Any way to go back to what life was like before this,” she gestures at Jensen’s wrist, “appeared?”

Clarity.

Isn't there a Warrior for that?

“I don’t think so,” Jensen answers honestly. “I wish…I wish I could wave it all away, put it down to a crazy hallucination…”

Danneel breaks into a rueful grin. “You and us all, buddy.”

Jensen answers with certainty. “But we can’t, not really.”


	6. Chapter 6

Two nights in a row, Jensen dreams of walking on the same sand that had dripped from his fingertips. It takes a while to realize that, indeed, it is a beach – at first, it looks like a desert, a dark, endlessly unyielding stretch of grit. But as Jensen walks – or as the ground moves around him, he can’t tell which – he sees the turquoise and sea green rushing toward him.

The liquid brushes over Jensen's feet and the sand around it, leaving Jensen with a sense of peace that he hadn’t experienced in other dreams.

There are no waves. The wetness rushes around his ankles and continues past him until there is no sand, just water to the horizon.

Jensen closes his eyes, forgetting to breathe.

The problem with dreams that don't send you into an existential panic is that Jensen is doubly disoriented when he wakes, expecting to find the calmness of the water and instead getting the insistent buzzing of his phone alarm.

He's floating – not literally – but the dreams have put a wall between Jensen and everything around him. He’s disconnected, watching the world from a distance while he stands in the middle of it.

Coffee at home, subway. _When a Blind Man Cries_ from _Deep Purple, Big Wide River_ from The Rave-Ups, and some comfort _Beatles_ from his slow playlist. Trying to remember what he’s been working on when he’s in front of his work computer.

Around noon, barely having done any work because of the persistent sound of water shushing through his head, Jensen goes for his second coffee.

He braves the blinding redness of the office kitchen, setting his mug under the Keurig spout and reaching for the double espresso button. The universe must have a soft spot for the people drowning in their own thought, Jensen muses, since it gifted them this magic re-focusing elixir called coffee. The beginnings of a zany smile play at Jensen’s lips, only in part remnants of the peaceful dream.

But the universe also has a mischievous sense of humor, because, suddenly Jensen feels dizzy. He grasps the edge of the countertop, good mood evaporating instantly. He inhales sharply, looks down in an effort to rediscover his balance.

His feet are bare. Dark sand is covering his toes.

The dream is happening in reality.

He curses, fear exploding in him, a burst of panic that grips his chest tight, pushes all the air out of his lungs. 

It can't be happening here. The last untouched fragments of normal can't be ruined.

Jensen looks up and the cabinets have abandoned their solid forms, their edges shifting in resonance with his heartbeat. Blood, crimson and warm, pours from the wall, a cascade that spills onto the counter, splatters on his knuckles.

Jensen drowns in the overwhelming panic of not knowing what's happening. He becomes an entity of nothing but feeling, an unnatural, _wrongness_ to it.. The rift in his world isn't at a safe distance any more – it's here, it's consuming Jensen, with colors that fall apart and shapes that refuse to separate from one another. Reality breaks in pieces, like glass, shatters under Jensen's gaze, spreads out at his feet.

Jensen's eyes squeeze closed.

He can't see it. God damn it, he can't fight this.

_Jensen?_

That's Padalecki's voice. Asking.

Asking what?

Jensen struggles to find the clue that tells him what is real.

“Jensen.”

He opens his eyes to find Padalecki looking at him. Worried, hazel green eyes surveying him.

His boss is holding a steaming mug in his right hand, suspended above the gleaming white table.

“Jensen, are you okay?”

Not really.

Was the whole experience another freak reaction to Padalecki?

It hadn’t felt like it.

“Are _you_ okay?” _Why do you not look on the verge of passing out, like me?_

“I'm fine,” Padalecki says, frowning. “But you don't look so good.”

Padalecki's four feet away. It's a big fucking kitchen.

_What the hell is happening?_

“I – you don't feel it?” Jensen asks, searching Padalecki's face.

He's still holding on to the countertop for dear life, but it's become an uncomfortable position, twisted towards Padalecki, so Jensen lets go and turns to lean against it, feeling the solid surface touching his lower back. He crosses his arms, less with the intention of being his usual challenging self, and more to steady the trembling of his hands.

Padalecki starts to reply, but whatever he wanted to say gets fractured by the thought that coats his features in surprise. “It's...me?”

Jensen nods weakly.

The…hallucination must have been caused by Padalecki walking in the kitchen while Jensen’s back was to the doorway. Because Jensen doesn’t want to think about a scenario when even that rug is pulled out from under him.

This is a level up from anything he’s experienced before.

It’s terrifying.

“Shit,” Padalecki curses. He makes an aborted move towards the exit, but in the next second realizes that he's taking the wrong path towards it, one that would bring him _closer_ to Jensen. For a few moments, he just stands there awkwardly, exchanging glances with Jensen.

He's probably searching for a sign that this isn't really happening. That they're two normal human beings.

But then Padalecki turns, steps carefully, following the edge of the table with his left hand, and ends up walking all the way around it to reach the door without coming closer to Jensen. Through the glass wall that separates the kitchen from the hallway, Jensen can see Padalecki keeping his head down the entire way to his office.

A door is slammed closed.

Jensen exhales, air that he'd been keeping in finding a way outside. He waits.

Fuckery of all fuckeries –

The feeling doesn't pass.

Jensen still feels warm liquid on his hands. When he looks down, they're still drowned in crimson. Sand scrapes roughly on the soles of his feet. And while the mess of emotions that had assaulted him has decreased considerably in intensity, it has left behind a mix that Jensen simply cannot grasp. Because Padalecki left, but the illusion remains.

Sudden panic smooths out to an anticipating dread. A strange anger, the same that fills him whenever he comes into any kind of contact with Padalecki, washes over him. It’s almost like it’s his boss’ fault he’s experiencing this.

Solution: move to Antarctica.

All kinds of perks. Fluffy penguins, uncomplicated-by-urban-chaos life, and, most importantly, a continent and some between him and Padalecki.

Except…he wants...he _needs_ to find Padalecki.

He doesn't understand this sudden compulsion. Yet that’s what he feels, despite all of it. Part of him is clamoring for Jensen to walk through the blood and sand and see that Padalecki is okay.

When Alona comes in, Jensen’s still glued to the kitchen counter, afraid to move forward..

But when she does not leave screaming immediately, Jensen latches on to the normalcy of her “Hi, Jensen,” as she walks toward him.

Reason comes into play, _finally_ , enough for Jensen to draw the conclusion that nobody can see what he sees. The world is still right side up for the people around him. Probably even for Padalecki. After all, his boss hadn't stayed to help with the cleanup of all the blood covering the countertop.

It's both a relief and a concern for Jensen.

On one hand, he's relieved that the shit he's been hallucinating doesn't find its way to the outside - it's not really beautiful rose gardens and rainbow arcades.

On the other hand, Jensen had hoped this had something to do with the legend of the Warriors. But if Padalecki was oblivious to it...then what - well, what _else_ is fucked up with Jensen?

“You good, Jensen?” Alona asks, stopping right in front of him.

_Yeah, just hanging out here, wanting to not look like the killer in the last frame of a horror movie._

“I'm fine,” Jensen replies, nodding.

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay, if you say so.”

Alona doesn't move.

Jensen huffs. “What?”

“You're standing in front of the coffee machine.”

Oh. Right.

Jensen, as sheepish as he could ever be – which is not to say _very_ – moves, finds unexpected courage to brave the demons in his head. Surprisingly, the first step he takes is on something solid, his feet once more his in dark green, well-worn Converse sneakers. Jensen looks at his hands. Clean. Only his wrist bears the mark of anything out of the ordinary occurring in the last ten minutes.

The infinity symbol is not black anymore, but _alight_ , like someone placed the sun behind a canvas of the night sky.

Jensen stands there, staring at it, mesmerized.

“...left your cup...want it?”

Alona's voice draws his attention to the present again.

“Sure,” he says mechanically.

But even that small lapse of focus has a consequence. The brightness of the symbol is gone, and Jensen is left wondering if he'd imagined everything. He tries to stay away from dramatic statements, but right at this moment, losing his mind feels like a very real possibility.

Jensen returns to his desk, hoping that focusing on work will improve his outlook. But he finds it impossible to concentrate for more than five minutes at a time.

He was wrong; having a hallucination at work, in front of your boss, is not the thing that robs you of the last piece of _usual_ you possess – what buries you completely is the aftermath. The undeniable realization, the _acceptance_ that it really isn’t a dream, and hasn’t been.

Heroic fantasies be damned, this is not what he wants for his life. It’s not living like this, in constant fear of what the next breath will bring, grasping at straws to act normal, to not reveal how screwed up he truly thinks he is.

He lets himself despair, panic, just like he did minutes before. It's too easy. Questions that he had, doubts, ambivalent feelings about the legend, they all come back in an amalgam of emotions that makes Jensen want to run and hide – hide from ever _feeling_ again.

Returning to reason is a process, like reducing the volume from maximum to a low hum. Slow glide, thoughts dissipating, running to conceal themselves under the safe cover of rationale.

Jensen presses himself to look at the cold, hard facts.

The hallucinations. The connections with Danneel, Tahmoh. Padalecki. The marks on Danneel and Padalecki. The Warriors. His tattoo.

The pendulum swings again, and hope, grated to the point of breaking, takes hold. They all must be under the same umbrella. It must be crazy of the same kind.

It's strange, that reason doesn't tell him _ignore it all_. No, reason tells him to go on, to leave the hesitation and the anguish at the door. Surrender to the impossible.

Jensen isn't sure that it’s logic that suddenly needles him out of his chair and towards Padalecki's office. He isn't even sure if he's going there to pick a fight or have a serious conversation about everything that's happening.

Jensen guesses he'll find out.

Thanks to the transparent hallways, Jensen gets a glimpse of Padalecki before barging into the office, and stops before sending both of them into a tailspin again.

He sees Padalecki's back through the glass. Standing at the window, taut physique silhouetted by the graphite and silver panorama of the 26th floor windows. He's talking on the phone, right palm supporting his weight against the window frame, sky-blue shirt stretched over broad shoulders, tucked in the usual Prussian blue suit pants.

Just as Jensen's about to bring his knuckles to the door, Padalecki drops his left hand from his ear, presumably ending the phone call. Jensen waits for him to turn. But Padalecki doesn't. He balls the hand holding the phone into a fist, and raises it, whole body tensing, like he's ready to punch the closest wall.

Jensen stands there, stunned. It's the first display of uncontrolled emotion Padalecki has shown in the entire time Jensen has known him. The chink in Padalecki’s [imperturbable](https://www.google.com/search?q=imperturbable&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjF4-q0tJDjAhVFWs0KHaO6DWwQkeECCC0oAA) calm.

He watches Padalecki's body work to relax again, head down, back heaving with controlled breaths. Jensen decides to finally complete the action he started, and knocks, hard enough to be heard over whatever is running through his boss' mind.

Padalecki straightens, turns his head towards the door. His features slide from unchecked fury to astonishment to confusion in a matter of seconds, adapting easily to the unforeseen situation and waving Jensen in.

_No, stop._

A palm raised as barrier, then from five, only one finger remains up.

_Wait_.

Padalecki takes a step and leans over awkwardly to pull his office chair from under the desk over to the far wall.

_This is ridiculous,_ Jensen thinks.

But not unnecessary.

The back of the leather chair hits the transparent wall. Padalecki sits and motions Jensen to enter.

“Hey,” Jensen blurts, still a bit flustered because of their earlier encounter.

Padalecki frowns. “Jensen.” Realizing that Jensen is under a spell of petrification, he adds, “Take a seat.”

Padalecki's a strange mix of authoritative and excruciatingly soft to which Jensen's body seems to respond on its own. His feet move forward and he draws the other office chair towards the opposite wall.

“Throw me the remote.”

Jensen tilts his head. “Huh?”

“The remote on the desk. For the windows.”

Jensen doesn't even attempt a second _huh._ He grabs the remote-looking object near the keyboard of Padalecki's computer and throws the small, shiny black device. Padalecki catches it easily. The previously transparent glass encircling the room clouds over until Jensen can’t distinguish the windows from the color of the solid walls.

He stares. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I never needed to before.”

Jensen abandons admiring the wonders of technology, and turns towards Padalecki. “You _need_ to do it now?”

“It'd be pretty hard to explain this,” Padalecki replies, waving at all the space between them.

“We can say you have something contagious.”

That draws a small laugh out of Padalecki. “Great tagline for a company that deals with e-health.”

“Seriously, you okay?” Jensen asks abruptly.

Padalecki just blinks at him. “What?”

Jensen makes a gesture with his hand. “The phone call. I was outside the door.”

“I'm good.”

He answers carefully - and yet he's crossing his arms, glaring at Jensen like he asked for access to the nuclear codes.

“Didn't seem like it,” Jensen throws, shrugging.

“It was a frustrating call. Happy?”

“No.”

Padalecki narrows his eyes. “It would be really helpful if you could tell me why you are here, Jensen. I have a feeling this conversation would be much more productive.”

“Is it all about being productive with you?”

Why his mouth forms sounds without his blessing, that is a mystery Jensen will never solve.

“It's about not spending time on things that don’t concern you,” Padalecki replies evenly.

It'd be easier if Padalecki stood up in the corner of the room and jumped like a boxer into the ring against Jensen. But he doesn't. He's almost calm – though Jensen sees a few strands of self-control snapping.

It’s not enough.

Maybe the deep, dark desire driving Jensen is to get a rise out of Padalecki. To _break_ him...to see the intensity Jensen feels returned, to find the same depth to the closeness which is burning a hole in Jensen.

“I was just asking.”

It's hardly an apology.

“I don't think it's appropriate.”

_Oh Jesus, which part of it?_

“I thought there was more to us than that.”

“The Warriors?” Hesitation softens Padalecki’s earlier stance and he bends forward a tiny bit. “I still don't...it's just my personal life, Jensen. It’s of no importance to you. So, can we jump to the subject...the _actual_ one you came here to discuss?”

Padalecki has this nice idea that Jensen's actions are coordinated by logic and reason. That's not even close to being true, unfortunately.

There's an ounce of madness slipping through the thin cracks left by the hallucinations in Jensen's mind, and it spreads, generates a reckless impulse to attack, demand, force this relationship into a shape he can define.

“I came to tell you I don't think it was you in the kitchen.”

Padalecki's brows crease. But he doesn't say anything.

Jensen forces himself to continue. “I've been having dreams for a long time.” _Years_. “Lately, they've been more vivid.”

“Dreams?” Padalecki inquires, confused. The poor guy. Jensen's taking him on a a rollercoaster ride. “What do they have to do with us?”

That's the million dollar question, isn't it?

“I think they're related to the legend. I don't know how, but they've been getting more intense since I met Danneel, and Tahmoh. More vivid.”

Padalecki probably doesn't notice that his office chair rolls a few inches closer to the middle of the room. “What do you dream?”

“Paths. Mountains. The sea. Blood. Black sand.”

“That's an interesting medley,” Padalecki ponders, maintaining eye contact with Jensen. “Does it make sense to you?”

Jensen huffs, frustrated. “No. Not really.”

“I don't have any kind of dreams.”

“None?” Jensen asks, surprised.

Padalecki shakes his head. “None. Just dead sleep.”

Jensen shrugs. “I mean, there are people who don't dream. Or don't remember their dreams.”

“But it might mean something.” Padalecki keeps quiet for a moment. Then, his body suddenly straightens in the chair with alertness. “You know, that day when we first told you, we showed you one more text besides the legend. Do you remember it?”

“Yep,” Jensen replies. “The _Intro to Warrior 101_.”

“It said that each of us has special abilities... _Each Warrior possesses abilities specific to their Sigil._ ”

Jensen catches on to what Padalecki's saying.

“You think these are special abilities?”

“Depends on your definition of special,” Padalecki says, pursing his lips, “But maybe, yes.”

“So since this Sigil,” Jensen raises his wrist, “Is different than yours,” Jensen waves a hand in the general direction of Padalecki’s arms, “I dream and you don’t?”

“Yeah?”

Great. They're all so sure about everything. Mercifully, Jensen still has some brain cells that survived the day. He doesn't quite switch the subject, but swerves enough to leave the previous conversation thread to run in a parallel lane.

“Did Danneel say anything?”

“About dreams?” Padalecki shrugs. “No. All she says is that she's kind of feeling stupid for creeping on each person who crosses her path on the street, searching for this same connection we have.”

That's probably what she meant when she told Jensen that she wished they could go back to when they didn’t know about this. The fantasy is promising, the reality a continuous effort to keep at it. 

“Wait. Shit,” Jensen finally processes the information,“do you think the rest of the – the rest of the Warriors could be random people? People we haven’t met yet?”

He doesn't add – _that gives us about zero point no chances to find them_.

“I genuinely don't know,” Padalecki replies. Jensen wonders if Padalecki really is distressed as he answers or if he is reading his own queasiness into Padalecki’s tone. The _I don't knows_ are cruel for two guys with technical, solution-oriented minds. “I really hope not.”

Maybe his boss' specialability is to read minds, because he clearly gets what Jensen didn't voice out loud.

“I've talked to my friend,” Padalecki adds after a few moments of silence where each of them contemplates touring the world to find their last Beatle. Or maybe it's just Jensen. Probably it is. Padalecki's more practical. He'd make a trillion phone calls, or gather a large meeting, a pep rally, _Go Warriors_ themed, maybe some pompoms –

“He's in Europe.”

Jensen lands back on Earth. “What?”

“My friend, Chad, the one I was telling you about. He lives in Europe now.”

Europe.

Well, Jensen wasn't that far off.

But he has trouble understanding what to do with that information.

“And?”

Padalecki leans over, presumably to rest his hands in front of him on a flat surface, like he usually does. Only he can't, because he's forced to stay in a different hemisphere from Jensen, and consequently isolated himself in a completely empty part of the office. He rectifies the movement, brings palms to his knees awkwardly.

“What do you think we should do?”

Jensen has to blink away the surprise. “What _I_ think?”

“I don't think I can make a decision for everyone.”

“Aren't you the boss?”

“Here, yes. In _this_ ,” he accentuates, “I doubt it.”

“How would you know?”

“Time is. _Guardian of the Guardians_ , Jensen.”

Nobody designated a leader in the legend explicitly, as far as Jensen understands. The Braveheart speech is still an open position for everyone. He wonders with suspicion whether Padalecki holds information he hasn’t shared with the group. Because Jensen was pretty sure they're all in the dark about their specific identities.

“You don't think you're... _Time_?”

Padalecki grimaces. “I don't – shit, I don't know.”

Helpful. This is a very constructive conversation, clarifying all mysteries on the planet. Scooby and the gang will be going out of business.

“So, what, we cast a vote?” Jensen asks, more a joke than anything else.

In what turns out to be a new trend, Padalecki takes it seriously.

“That's an option.”

“And the other?”

“We find enough of the Warriors that it will become clear.”

Erm, Catch-22, anyone? Need Warrior to find leader, need leader to find Warrior. Jensen says as much.

“Do you have any other leads?” Padalecki asks, irritation slipping in. In other words, _Jensen, if you're so good at demolishing solutions, how about you come up with one?_

“Actually, I do.”

Padalecki's chair rolls a few more inches as he leans over as much as he can, sign of interest that doesn't bother Jensen. As long as his marbles are finely contained in the box.

“Not Tahmoh?”

“No,” Jensen shakes his head. “A friend of mine.”

Practically a brother. But there are some things that Jensen doesn't feel like sharing with Padalecki yet.

“And?”

It would be easier if they were some semblance of friends, where formalities lose their meaning and they could say whatever they want. As it is, between them is an employer-employee relationship layered over with this Warrior myth and the possibly – probably? connected physical, emotional reaction they have to each other.

Land mines between them, in other words. But of course Jensen's running carelessly all over explosive material.

“I'm going to talk to him when I see him tomorrow.”

Tomorrow’s run. Chris has the impression he's training Jensen for a marathon. “And if he doesn't take me to the station to file a complaint against me, we'll set a meeting with all of us.”

“That sounds good,” Padalecki approves after he thinks it over a bit. “Wait, to the station?”

“He's a police officer.”

For an unknown reason, that makes a gigantic smile spread over Padalecki's face. “Awesome.”

Fantastic. A groupie.

Jensen can't wait to tell Chris _that_.

“Okay, that's that,” he says, starting to get up, a sudden feeling of exposure making him uncomfortable.

“Wait,” Padalecki stops him.

“I wanted to ask – I was working up to it in the kitchen, but...what was your impression of Tahmoh?”

Fair question. Padalecki had only gotten a _No sign from my T yet, but I think he'll come around soon enough_ message from Danneel on the group chat.

What does Jensen think about it?

That Danneel's a blind optimist. Jensen thinks their meeting with the guy went reasonably bad.

“He's...clearly he and Danneel have a lot of history. Beyond that, I don't know. There might be something there.” He pauses, then words he wasn’t intending to say fall out of his mouth anyway. “I did have a…disorientating moment when I walked in the room where he was. Not as bad – as intense as between us, but there was something.”

Padalecki looks smug.

Which expression makes Jensen go on the attack again, if only to regain control of the breach in his own wall of private thoughts.

“So who pissed you off on that phone call?”

Padalecki’s jaw tightens and he looks, for a moment - _dangerous_ , far away from the even-tempered CEO. “It was my mom. She...well, she calls sometimes and tells me a lot of shit about her life, and about my dad, that I’d rather not hear about. And – it’s none of your business.”

His face is stone cold.

Padalecki isn't lying, Jensen's sure of that. Just like he's sure that he isn't getting the whole story. But Jensen doesn't need it to go farther than that.

He got what he wanted.

Padalecki's human.

He reacts. He's not all sunshine and unicorns and _let's save the world_ _one person at the time_. There's a darker side in him, and instead of being the revelation that pushes Jensen away, it's the realization that strengthens the tie between them against Jensen's conscious will.

And it's not an unpleasant feeling.

“Okay,” Jensen nods, smiling slightly. He gets up to leave.

There's a faint reply, but Jensen doesn't hear it. His muscles relax. His mind...his mind chases the name of the Warrior written in dark sand.

_Sacrifice._


	7. Chapter 7

Jensen falls into the same black sand beach effortlessly, head hitting the pillow in anticipation and dreams melting against his waking mind. With his last thoughts before he's pulled under, he sets his mind to search for an explanation for the name he saw written in gold on the jet-black shore.

The illusion is waiting.

Jensen is its architect, but the dream demands silence. Jensen is merely a vandal who thieves the place of its imperturbable serenity. The silence, ethereal and still, locks all the questions Jensen wants to ask in nothingness. He is voiceless, his protests lost among echoes of the water that crash soundlessly, ocean demanding that Jensen hear it in his head.

On this occasion, Jensen is here simply to watch.

No questions, no answers.

He turns from watching turqoise sea to black and off-white sand and sky, grains and clouds, rough and soft. A fire ignites a few feet away, red-hot flame that looks fragile, almost transparent. But it's deceiving. The delicate heat survives in the humid air, it thrives despite having no support, no source, no tether that is real enough. Then seeds of metal sprout, turning to rust as they grow, flames raising defiantly, stronger, solid enough that they form a wall that Jensen can't even think to pass.

Loudness that stretches, nails on blackboard, a ringing in Jensen's ears that doesn't stop. Faster and faster, impossible to withstand. It doesn't cease until there is a perfect circle of flames that surrounds the silhouette in the middle.

Jensen remains still. It is not his own choice. It is the will of the dream, it is that of the Warrior within him.

A body, human, clearer as Jensen blinks, a flash of incontestable, known reality where none should exist.

Padalecki.

Or, an entity that looks like him. It is the same shape, sitting cross-legged, rigid. Tan skin marred by trails of charcoal. Dark bands elongating from the chest upwards, to the neck, and wringing themselves in bridges over the shoulders down to Padalecki's elbows. They are trickling down to his thighs, a wire frame trapping a spirit, holding a human body captive in light burnt into ashes of thought.

Jensen searches the silhouette's eyes, but the hazel-green is glazed over, hollow and lost, and Jensen is the only one who sees hands that don't exist, solidity disintegrating. Anticipation extricates a scream from parts of himself that fight to take command, but either Jensen has lost his hearing, or the sound of the waves covers it.

A blink and the image in front of him dissolves. The body turns from concrete to a painting drawn in points, spirit crushed down to fine dust held up by the sharp skeleton of marks. And then - just…dust. Skin-colored. Escaping through the gaps in the long dark lines, which are still intact, meeting the ground. 

Glittering golden sand, fire, and ash.

It reminds Jensen of an emptying hourglass.

Jensen wakes with a start.

He jumps to a sitting position. His labored breathing is the only soundtrack for the journey back to the present.

What –

The. Fuck.

Jensen rubs a hand over his face only to find it drenched in sweat. He throws a glance at his alarm clock.

4:55.

An hour before he should have woken up.

He lets his hands fall down on the covers, stares at them for an inordinate amount of time. Slowly, his heartbeat returns to normal. His mind, too, finds a path among the ruins of the dream.

He gets up.

In a vertical position, it seems less likely that the world's crumbling down.

The same feeling Jensen has when he stands too close to Padalecki had crossed into the dream realm, left behind a lasting impression that follows Jensen into the shower and invades his thoughts during breakfast.

Sitting at the kitchen island, eating the egg whites and the slice of toast Chris had recommended before their run, Jensen thinks about his friend's advice. Back when they were kids, and Jensen had nightmares – sans tattooed boss, with more emphasis on the feeling that _something's gonna go really wrong –_ Chris had told him to find the clue that made the dream impossible. Rationalize your way into reality.

His dreams then, a group of Vikings dressed in leather and fur with Jensen a captive was a fantasy born out of bad movies, nebulous searches for beginnings, endless races against time, consequences of a foster kid's life – inglorious, lacking, nomadic.

It made sense then.

However, when it comes to these hallucinations – because they’re hardly simply dreams anymore – Jensen can't find the same certainty. When he watches the wrist of his right hand, which fucking _glows_ in the dim light of the late autumn morning, it's pretty hard to ignore the obvious in front of his eyes. Without rhythm or logic, the tattoo gleams in intervals Jensen counts on the microwave clock and finds uneven, fire from his dreams coloring it brighter, incandescent, hurting at times.

The only good thing Jensen can think of is that this might be the undeniable proof Chris needs to believe the story Jensen is about to tell him.

Of course, the infinity symbol that found its home on Jensen's skin is a dodgy fucker, and all lights turn off on command the moment Jensen dares to think he could use it to his advantage. Which is about when he greets his neighbor Aldis, a routine Jensen has stopped thinking about, and put it in the _facts of the day_ column. 

With all his own preoccupations, Jensen doesn’t know what prompts him to ask “Where’s Ike?” because he’s never seen the somber neighbor without his dog. Aldis mutters something about the vet, and Jensen, on autopilot, spares a thought for the poor Lab, hopes Ike feels better soon.

At 6:55, five minutes before the established meeting time with Chris, Jensen is leaning against the cold iron park fence, checking the messages on his phone and letting out a sailor’s string of curses towards the universe. It’s fucking cold outside.

Looking up, Jensen sees the approaching navy blue NYPD hoodie. He slips his phone in the pocket of his sweatpants just as Chris emerges from his left, face stuck in the usual mix of apprehension and determination that applies to all situations, all times – that is, until he sees Jensen, and his eyes widen in surprise.

“You're here,” he says as soon as he's in earshot of Jensen.

“No, I'm not.”

At Chris' even more confused stare, Jensen adds, “It's an illusion.”

“Convincing one.”

He studies Jensen head to toe. “No, seriously, how are you here early?”

Jensen refrains from answering with _I walked_.

“’Morning to you too,” he says instead.

He motions for Chris to go through the park entrance, a large iron arcade that until now, had been drowned in a faint cobalt fog. Chris moves, albeit mechanically.

“What, your clock broken?”

“Huh?” Jensen frowns.

This is not exactly the perfect continuation to the morning he had.

“You always come on time,” Chris explains. “I’m saying - _on the dot_.”

“I do?”

Maybe, but it's definitely not on purpose.

“Yeah. It's one of the things I like, especially now, in this goddamn weather. I come on time, too, so I don't freeze my balls off, and I know I'm not letting yours turn into icicles, either.”

“Aw,” Jensen coos, “you worry about my balls.”

At that point, Chris shakes off the trauma of seeing Jensen arrive five minutes early, and finally sets into motion.

First, the warm-up. Then the actual run.

It goes like it always does. They take the same route, they briefly talk about the same subjects – the basketball games, the stats, Chris' unending frustration with the police bureaucracy, and eventually Jensen's dreams, the Cliffs Notes version, in the background of which Jensen tries to finds to bring up the legend to Chris.

And then it's almost 8:30 and Jensen stops, doubling over, desperately trying to get some of the air into his lungs.

“Fuck,” he heaves.

He's getting better at running. Really. The first time, by this point, he'd coated the bushes with remnants of his breakfast.

“You good?” Chris asks.

He sounds a little uneven, but far from the _my-internal-organs-are-rioting_ state Jensen's experiencing.

“Yes,” Jensen mumbles when he finally manages to stand up.

Chris, content with the answer, gestures with his hand towards the park entrance, which they've looped back to.

“Friday, same time?”

Jensen nods mechanically, still unable to gather more than two coherent thoughts, failing to recognize the opportunity to cancel his subscription to this torture right now.

“No, wait,” he says. “We need to talk.”

Chris frowns. “Now?”

“Yes.”

There is a brief pause while Chris catches on.

“Is this about the alien abduction thing?”

And, what can Jensen say to that other than, “Yeah.”

They choose a nearby coffee shop, which is somewhat cramped for Jensen's taste, but has the upside that it's warm. Besides, they stink so bad, they clear a path two feet wide on each side.

“There,” Jensen points to an empty two-seater.

“ I'm gonna need a bowl of coffee for this. You grab the spot.”

Jensen sits, waits for his friend to clear the long queue at the bar. Unfortunately, that gives him time to ponder all the ways this conversation could go. The percentage of successful scenarios ranges from zero to…none.

But what the fuck.

Padalecki told _him_ , and going by Jensen's attitude until that point, Padalecki could have guessed any reaction - from Jensen throwing a punch to quitting and suing his boss for questionable state of mind.

Comforted by the thought, Jensen takes the hot cup of mocha cherry latte from Chris with a half-smile. It’s the first kind – first coffee – that he ever drank, on an outing with Chris before his eighth grade exams. Jensen was afraid that coffee would make him more anxious, more agitated, less in control than he already felt he was.

So Chris had said, _have a weaker one. Try._ Chris had bought himself a ginger-nut-chocolate-toffee-something in solidarity.

Chris’ tastes changed to something simpler. Jensen’s did not.

Jensen waits for his friend to take his seat.

“So,” Chris begins.

Without any further hesitation, Jensen tells him.

First about his conversation with Padalecki.

He mentions his boss' new ink. Danneel. Jensen explains the circumstances of his own small tattoo appearing.

Chris goes from mouth open in surprise to eyes narrowing in confusion and back, every word of Jensen's increasing the intensity of the expressions as he follows along.

Jensen shows Chris the legend on his phone, and ties whatever he understands from his dreams to points in it, hoping that it's enough for Chris to believe. He carefully phrases the reasoning for their find-a-new-Warrior algorithm, since it's the one piece that seems to hold, at the same time, the most assurance and the most uncertainty.

When Jensen finishes, Chris is looking at him cautiously.

“So you think I'm part of this because…?”

_Because you’ve been a solid rock in my life from the day I met you as a scared foster kid, even though you were only a little older than me._

“You're the only person in my life I thought could be connected to this,” Jensen replies, maintaining eye contact.

It's important for Chris to get that he's not fucking around.

“That's sweet, Jen, but, how is this not a…freaking fantasy? A folk tale?”

That question again.

But this time, Jensen has a better answer.

“You think I'd go to these lengths just to pull a prank on you, Chris?”

“Right,” Chris concedes. “Okay. So, you say. Warriors. Light. You, Padalecki, this Danneel and her husband.”

Jensen watches the wheels in Chris' head turn, processing. He seems more confused than shocked, which is fantastic.

Jensen's trained him well with the crazy.

“And these marks. You said Padalecki has them?”

“Right, like a full-body tattoo, but swirling black lines. That was in my dream,” Jensen clarifies. “In real life, he only showed me a part of his elbow, so I don't know the extent to which he actually has them. And Danneel, too, she said she had some.”

“Where?”

Jensen furrows his brows. “Where?”

Blue eyes pin him down.

“On her back, I think.”

There's a sharp inhale from the other side of the table, and Chris suddenly looks stricken.

“Chris, what?” Jensen urges, alarm bells going off.

“Like...were the _marks –_ ” he starts, voice shaking a bit, left hand going up to lift his hoodie at the hip. “Like this?“

Jensen stares at the exposed skin.

On the left side of Chris' torso there are lines exactly like Padalecki's, a procession of the same long, black bands rooted at the hip and going upwards, disappearing under Chris' clothes.

“Motherf-” Jensen starts, loud enough for heads to turn towards them and for Chris to drop the hoodie back, covering the marks. “What the fuck, Chris?” he corrects, whispering.

Chris raises an eyebrow.

“You tell me about a fairy tale, and then you're surprised at this?”

He has a point.

But it's not exactly fair that the conversation turned around on Jensen like this.

“How?” Jensen gets out, managing to bypass all the expletives he wants to add.

Chris shrugs. “About year and some months ago. Just woke up with them like this.”

“And?”

Chris frowns. “And what?”

“There was nothing weird about it.”

“Of course there was. I went to a dermatologist.”

The confusion might be visible on his face, because the next thing Chris says is, “Well, not everyone's first theory is a myth.”

Maybe Chris is Reason. He certainly has acted like it in this conversation.

“And?” Jensen repeats his earlier question, curious now.

“He said he hadn't seen something like this before, but far as he could tell, there was nothing dangerous about it...it's more like burnt skin _–_ scarred in an abnormal way _–_ was how he put it.”

_Burnt_.

Fire. Ashes and embers, darkness and golden cinders of his dreams.

But those are just...

Jensen doesn't know how much his current reality influences these illusions, and how much stands on its own, something completely different, something that warns him about it. So he doesn't say anything about them. Jensen focuses on what Chris is saying.

“You…just accepted it?”

Chris shifts a little in his chair, hands on his empty coffee mug, eyes glued to it. “Well, no. I knew there was something to it – but you live with some stuff long enough, you kinda forget about it. Some months passed, and it was a part of me like any other.”

This approach is either trademark Chris – pragmatic to the last fiber of his being – or delusional, ignoring the obvious because it's not to his liking.

Whichever it is, Jensen decides not to fore deeper.

Except in one aspect.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

It's only half accusatory. After all, Chris saw Jensen's Sigil by mistake, Jensen had no intention of bringing the subject up voluntarily.

Chris seems to follow the same train of thought.

“Ackles, really – do you tell me everything about your life?”

No. And Jensen doubts he ever will. He stays silent.

“Got your answer right there,” Chris says, smiling a little.

For a good few minutes, they just stay there, not saying anything more. The murmur of the coffeeshop suddenly breaks into their little bubble with indistinct voices and faint music. Jensen stares at the dark wooden table, playing with the last sips of coffee in his cup, miniature waves created by the motion helping him think about this.

Chris waits, patient, strong, still hands resting on the table.

“Good,” Jensen says out of nowhere, continuing trails of thought started in his mind. “So you're a part of this.”

“Apparently,” Chris agrees.

“Then, next step – we all meet.”

Really, the next step is to figure out why Chris already had the miraculous tattoo, how the fuck, if he's not met Padalecki or Danneel. But, judging by previous experience with this legend, Jensen assumes that's easier said than done, and therefore he says nothing, sticks to the concrete things they can do to understand this.

Chris nods. “Good that. Can't wait to meet baby boss.”

Oh, right. Chris and what Jensen’s told him about Padalecki.

The joy this brings Jensen is infinite.

“I'll ask the others when we can set it up.”

Chris nods.

That's that. Simple. Right now, it feels like talking with Chris always had this quality.

They get up to leave.

And Jensen – he feels free, mind settled for having told Chris all – well, a lot – of it.

He feels stronger, more determined, thoughts cementing to convictions, doubts regarding his personal sanity assuaged, minimized by the trust Chris has in him. The hope that the legend might be a good thing reappears, and the difficulties that come with it become just challenges, problems to be solved, a matter of Jensen just finding the right methods to approach them.

So he smiles. Mostly.

Smiling is not particularly Jensen's thing.

But it's definitely a 180 from the rude awakening of this morning.

Jensen arrives late at work that day, a shower and getting dressed making it noon when he finally settles at his desk, turns on his computer.

The first thing he does is to dart off a quick question to the group chat Padalecki created.

_jensen_ackles: Today or tomorrow, new meet at kndbee? I got news._

__

There's no immediate reply, not in the next two minutes, so he turns his focus on work, to at least justify his coming in.

__

Today is relatively easy to switch settings.

__

__

Around 5 PM, Danneel replies, saying that she's caught up at work, but next day is fine by her.

__

Padalecki is still absent from the conversation.

__

In a moment of either frustration – Jensen was somewhat excited to go forward with the work on the legend – or complete lunacy, given previous encounters, Jensen leaves his desk, and sets on an unexpected journey to Padalecki's office.

__

Since it's a few feet away, and not on another planet, like he sometimes feels, Jensen doesn't have time to reconsider, finding himself knocking without preamble on the glass door. Padalecki's at his desk, raises his head up from the laptop to look at Jensen.

__

Hair disheveled, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, eyes taking a second too much to focus when Jensen opens the door a little, slips his head in.

__

“Jensen.”

__

“Hey,” Jensen absently responds the usual greeting, and then getting straight to the subject. “The group chat, the meet? With Chris? You aren't answering.”

__

So polite. But as usual, strange fields hover around Padalecki, most of which rob Jensen of his better faculties.

__

“What?” Padalecki croaks out, searching under a folder on his desk for something.

__

He retrieves his phone.

__

“Oh, shit,” his boss mutters, looking at the screen. Then, again at Jensen, smiling apologetically, “Sorry. Got to work today...actual work, well, I guess I got caught up in it.”

__

A more socially capable person than Jensen would take that bit of information and turn the discussion to it. As it is, Jensen just nods – awkwardly, at that, with body contorted to fit as little of himself as possible inside the office – and says nothing.

__

Padalecki catches on.

__

“Right, meeting. You talked to your friend?”

__

“Yes,” Jensen replies, a tad impatiently.

__

Padalecki waits for more.

__

“He has markings, too, on his body. It was relatively easy to convince him to come,” Jensen shrugs.

__

Padalecki's eyebrows raise in surprise, but he recovers quickly.

__

“Great then. Tomorrow it is. In the Octopus room again? Seems to work,” his boss proposes.

__

“Perfect,” Jensen agrees.

__

And it is.

__

Mostly because today is hard to fuck with Jensen's chi. He's kicking ass and taking names, he's a freaking machine.

__

That's the joy of finally getting a break from drowning in overthinking – he comes up for air, and he sees everything clearly.

__

Except why he felt the need to personally make sure Padalecki confirms their meeting.

__

Impatience. For sure. That's what it is.

__

Impulse control is really becoming an issue. But even that realization doesn't ruin Jensen's chill.

__

__

Night comes quicker than Jensen realizes, eleven catching him still in the office, studying different text effects on his nicely colored graph, because that's what he does on good days, gets shit done.

__

The pleasant tiredness of a fruitful day mixed with the relief brought by his conversation with Chris makes Jensen malleable, soft, blank minutes between the point where he turns off his computer and picks up his rucksack and the moment he enters the subway, headphones in his ears, _Hey there Delilah_ blocking out everything.

__

Jensen chooses one of the many empty seats in the subway car, and watches the chase of images, dark and light, out of the window.

__

At some point, he closes his eyes, some instrumental Pink Floyd song the perfect lullaby that beckons him to dream.

__

__

It's a brief illusion. The window, muddy gray glass of the subway melting and revealing a painting of nature within. The forest is green, deep and dark, and the body in front of the trees is bright, a contour more than a solid form standing before the background.

__

Jensen knows that shape.

__

But he can't reach it.

__

The space between him and the silhouette, the small opening, the box in Jensen's mind he can't yet unlock, it's full of this man, of the secrets he holds in his hands.

__

Nothing else exists in this space, but the man, and Light.

__

And it is simply too much.

__

__

Jensen comes to on the notes of Liam Gallagher's _For what it's worth_ , unknown number of songs and stations passed.

__

He looks out the window.

__

Nothing but the same indistinct gray, brief patches of color, movement, light, flickering.

__

But Jensen lost time, a lot of it. He's almost at the end of the line and there’s only him and one other man in the car – a drunk who is using the subway seats as his bed for the night.

__

Jensen shakes himself.

__

_Damn it._

____

This dream, or whatever illusion it was, it was nice for a change, leaving him with a lingering warmth in his chest. But that's not the point. Now he has to go back almost half a town.

____

Jensen gets off into chilly air that wakes him up, and on the trip back to his stop busies his mind with scrutinizing the content of his hallucinations for deeper meanings.

____

____


	8. Chapter 8

The next day, the anticipation for the evening meeting makes Jensen fly through all his work assignments.

At 9 PM sharp, when the office is empty except for Alona, who always stays late, and two of Jensen's colleagues who are still finishing a project, Jensen steps into the conference room, not sure if there will be fireworks or a mass lovefest.

“Hey,” Padalecki greets Jensen from his place at the far end of the Octopus room, where he's already waiting.

“Hi,” Jensen replies automatically.

They haven't seen each other today, and god knows what Padalecki concluded from Jensen's quick hit-and-run the day before, so the silence that stretches after the brief exchange is slightly awkward.

Jensen sits down at his usual place, and they're saved by Danneel, professionally dressed, the same long forest green coat contrasting with her auburn hair, her energy electrifying the room as she enters.

But the surprise is that she isn't alone. Tahmoh is right behind her, tall and broad, hands in his jeans’ pockets, jaw set as if to say he is here but only to satisfy his curiosity _he’s not buying any of it_ _._

“Hey, Jared,” Danneel nods at Jensen but addresses Padalecki. “This is Tahmoh.”

Padalecki steps forward to meet Tahmoh, who was waiting silently just inside the doorway.

Jensen rolls back his chair instinctively.

“Tahmoh,” Padalecki extends a hand. “I'm glad you're here with us.”

The professor doesn't share the excitement.

But he does shake Padalecki's hand, returning the formality.

There's no sign of the nuclear-like reaction that Jensen and Padalecki have, even though Jensen is watching closely for any sign that Tahmoh’s presence affects Padalecki at all.

Jensen is left disappointed.

“Please, take a seat,” Padalecki invites Tahmoh.

Danneel subtly nods at her husband from the seat she’s chosen on the far side of the table, with her back to the windows. Tahmoh moves behind Jensen, for whom he spares an acknowledging nod.

Padalecki starts the conversation, barely letting the guy sit down. “What made you decide to come here?”

Danneel, probably, and her endless reserve of persuasive skills.

Tahmoh looks at Padalecki for a moment.

Leaning back into the comfortable chair, hands clasped in his lap, he seems relaxed. But his features tell another story – the pursed lips, the furrowed brow.

“Danneel made some convincing arguments,” is what the professor finally says, flat and not a syllable more than an answer to exactly what Padalecki asked.

Oh.

So they're doing it like this.

At least Jensen has a competitor for the prize of most hostile attitude.

“Right,” Padalecki nods, by now used to this kind of response.

It appears Jensen’s way is contagious.

But whatever his boss wants to say next is interrupted by a loud knock on glass.

Jensen turns his gaze from Padalecki to the door where Alona is gesturing Chris in. At Padalecki’s nod, Alona closes the door behind Jensen’s friend.

Jensen sees Chris surveying the room, knows he’s doing a cop’s scrutiny. It’s undecided if he’s treating them like perps or just witnesses.

“Got the address right? Warriors Anonymous?” his friend asks, concealing his piercing scrutiny with a smirk. His dark jeans, plain white t-shirt, and leather jacket are a contrast to the professional attire of the rest of the room.

Well, except for Jensen’s, who's donned the Octopi t-shirt again.

“Chris?” Padalecki asks, getting up. It's his territory, after all. “Jensen invited you, right?”

“Yep,” Chris nods, “You the boss?”

Jensen notices the sarcasm. Padalecki doesn't.

“I'm Jared,” Padalecki says, simply, going for a handshake, just like he greeted Tahmoh.

But, _unlike_ with Tahmoh, Chris stops two feet away – not gently, not elegantly, but like he ran headfirst into an invisible door, from motion to statue, right hand hanging somewhere in the air in an unfinished gesture.

Padalecki mirrors the reaction.

Well, okay.

Jensen's thrilled that he's not the only one that has sudden brain freezes when it comes to Padalecki, but the abrupt paralysis of his boss and his friend leaves everyone else in the room wondering whether they should call an ambulance or break out the pom-poms.

Jensen watches, heartbeat spiking.

He can't see Chris' eyes, he's with his back to Jensen, but if they're darting around as furiously as Padalecki's...well, the same question: are they about to hug or fight? The only thing that Padalecki’s face tells Jensen is that the reaction to Chris is something unexpected, and he's processing the situation at the speed of light.

Finally Chris' shoulders drop, relax.

Chain reaction. So do Jensen’s. He wasn't entirely sure he could have gotten between the two if it came to that.

“Well, fuck,” Chris whispers. “You and I…”

He stops.

Jensen waits for more.

What?

_You and I_ what?

Jensen, Danneel, and Tahmoh wait with bated breath for the continuation.

But Padalecki just rolls his shoulders, shakes whatever it was off. Then, finishing his initial gesture, he takes Chris' hand in his, squeezes it.

“Yeah. I felt it,” his boss confirms, leaving a few more Legos on the ground for all of them to step on while they fumble in the dark.

The two stand there, exchanging looks that, at least on Padalecki's side, seem to be a weird blend of friendliness and cautiousness. Of course. Contradiction is this legend's first love.

Chris lets go, and finally turns towards the rest of the room.

But he – along with Jensen and everyone else – is in for another surprise.

“I know you,” Chris declares, wide eyes meeting Danneel's.

She simply nods, having had time to study him extensively already. “Officer Kane.”

Jensen tries to understand. How is it that Chris is in the room for two seconds and he's already the soul of the party?

“Sergeant Kane now.”

“Congrats,” Danneel compliments Chris sincerely. “Calvert trial? You testified for the accusation.”

Chris grins. “You were the lawyer for the defense.”

Huh.

Jensen assesses this new information.

Chris met Danneel – so, his marks, maybe – like Padalecki –

“...she was badass,” Chris tells Jensen, as he pulls out the chair beside him. “Almost made me crap my pants.”

Jensen doesn't really know the appropriate reply to that, so he just mutters “Uh-huh.”

Danneel saves Jensen from another contribution. “I thought I was just nervous that day. It was an important case, and – well. It was probably something with a very different cause, wasn't it?”

She's studying Chris with narrowed eyes, not unfriendly...but something tells Jensen that whatever Chris said in that court room was not particularly to her liking.

“Seems so,” Chris replies.

He pauses, holding Danneel's gaze for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he turns his attention to Tahmoh.

Padalecki, silent until then, presumably as disconcerted as Jensen is by the new developments, makes the introduction. “Chris, that's Tahmoh. It's his first time with us, too.”

His boss is a pillar of restraint, the perfect master of ceremonies for the Warrior Anonymous meeting, because Jensen would have added _you don't know him, too, by any chance?_ _,_ unapologetically sarcastic.

“Hey,” Chris nods.

He doesn't add anything else. Finally, something goes as expected.

“That's all of us, yes?” Padalecki asks.

Danneel nods. “For now.”

“All right. Okay,” Padalecki continues, putting on frown-y CEO face, all serious and matter-of-fact.

Jensen leans back in his chair, patient spectator to the show that's about to start.

Padalecki fires up the laptop on the table and projects a precisely typed summary of the Warrior Legend on the big screen. Apparently he decided that Tahmoh and Chris might not be the type to take flying bats and broomsticks seriously.

He gives a brief synopsis of the points culled from the various websites and then moves to the personal link that is the reason they are all sitting around this table. “Each of us has had some type of reaction to meeting another one of the individuals in this room, varying from distinct physical responses to…mysteriously…appearing tattoo-like marks. Danneel seems to have been the catalyst from the marks showing up on both myself and Jensen –”

“And me,” Chris interrupts, and Jensen is pleased to see Padalecki thrown out of his lecturer mode.

“Oh” Danneel exclaims, mutedly.

Chris recounts what he told Jensen yesterday. The marks. Now, the connection to Danneel seems to explain the bizarreness.

“That’s certainly…interesting,” Padalecki recovers. “I'm aware that this...that it's something we are all grappling with and trying to figure out how to fit our understanding of it to real life.”

_Really?_ Jensen thinks.

Padalecki seemed to take it exceptionally well.

“However,” he continues, “I believe it's something important, and as _real_ as our day-to-day life is. The legend – us – I truly believe we're meant to do something significant. So before we truly start, before discussing anything further, I want to ask all of you. Are you committed to this?”

Jensen feels like it’s a good time to throw in his two cents. “I think you should be more clear.”

Padalecki, who, except his momentary reaction to the reveal about Chris’ marks, had the mannerisms of a public speaker on a podium, focuses exclusively on Jensen.

“What you mean by committed _,_ ” Jensen explains.

No, not undermining. Helpful, always, that's what Jensen is.

“I mean,” Padalecki says, not taking his eyes off Jensen, “are we all prepared to commit to following the legend, wherever it goes?”

See? That's concise.

Jensen's invaluable to this meeting.

“I'm in,” Jensen throws as soon as Padalecki finishes, just for the sake of it.

He doesn't know if he does it to show support for Padalecki or confuse him with contrariness.

It's not like it wasn't obvious. At this point, between all the dreams and the body tattoos, Jensen's days away from either figuring it out or committing himself to the loony bin.

Padalecki nods, obviously not entertained by the same little troll that runs around Jensen's thoughts, and looks at Chris.

“We just met,” the Sergeant argues when attention is on him. “You're asking us to dive headfirst into some weird shit.”

“Yes, that's true. But I'm guessing you're not here because you wanted to check out if we shouldn't be locked up, but because you have good reason to believe something more is happening.”

Point, Padalecki.

Chris opens his mouth to reply, closes it, then stares at his fingers drumming on the shiny table.

“Fine,” Chris declares after a few moments. “You can count on me.”

Thing is, Jensen is pretty sure that Chris was always in. If not because he truly believed in this, then because he wouldn't let Jensen jump off the crazy bridge alone – that's the kind of man he is.

Jensen smiles for himself while he listens to Danneel speak.

“For sure,” she agrees, easily convinced.

Then it's Tahmoh's turn. Jensen tries to gauge Tahmoh’s response before he speaks. Everything about the guy screams _stiff_. Not a quality you want in someone about to embark on a magic quest, Jensen's extensive fantasy reading experience tells him. But, on the other hand, the guy is _here,_ listening to Padalecki talking about ancient myths like he's conversing about the brand of cereals he had this morning. That's got to count for something.

“I'll follow Danneel,” the professor announces, tone the right mix of apprehensive and appeasing.

“That's...good,” Padalecki considers, seemingly content with the foundation he's lain for their group, leaning back into his chair. “Now, if anyone wants to propose a next step...”

It's only then that it dawns on Jensen that Padalecki was not asserting his authority, but avoiding the frustrating, messy beginnings where no one knows what to say to kick it off, for fear of landing on a totally different perspective than the rest of the audience.

It's reassuring, Jensen has to admit, even if he does so grudgingly. If nothing else, it gives the impression that they have some sort of structure, a starting point, instead of running off like headless chickens in the land of all possibilities.

“I'd like to start,” Chris answers, surprising Jensen. “With the...marks, Jensen called them? He said you,” Chris looks at Padalecki and then to Danneel, “and you have some tattoos.”

Padalecki catches on quickly. Without preamble, he pulls up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing the skin just above his elbows, where the black lines start.

“They run on my chest, on my back, and there are some on my thighs,” he explains.

Jensen watches along with Chris, fascinated at how Padalecki paints the exact image Jensen saw in his dreams.

Jensen juxtaposes the two pictures, the one solid, talking, real, and the illusion, the dissolving silence and the sorrow within it. They melt into each other, edges blurry, the only clear thought the ink, the darkness on tanned skin, the skeleton of jet-black bands that horrified him. It calls to Jensen, demands that he touch it.

But he can't.

Not here, and not even in his imagination. The dream had kept him away - no iteration of Padalecki is accessible to Jensen.

“Mine are only on the shoulders, going down my back,” Danneel's voice pulls Jensen out of his brief incursion out of the present, “but they look like Jared's.”

“Mine do too,” Chris adds, pensive expression on his face. “So, we three...and you?” he asks Tahmoh.

“No,” Danneel's husband answers curtly.

“But I don't have any, either,” Jensen chimes in, eager to avoid any kind of conflict when they're finally discussing freely. “Just this,” he says, raising the wrist with the symbol on it.

Of the four of them, Tahmoh is the one who studies it with the most interest.

“The legend Danneel showed me,” the professor cuts into the conversation, reaching under the table for the messenger bag he had come in with, “and another small excerpt, said that the tracks, the ones you three have, they... how was it? They _keep count of the life within_.”

He pulls out two volumes. The first is a thin notebook with a distressed, almost destroyed black hardcover, while the second is a larger, thicker book, much better kept, embossing clearly visible on the chestnut leather spine – a tree of some sort, branches spreading to the covers under Tahmoh's fingertips.

Jensen begins to suspect that _I'll follow Danneel_ translates into _My reason for joining this is purely to satisfy my academic fetish_.

Eh. Whatever floats everyone's boat, who's Jensen to contest it.

“All of this I found related to the legend of the Seven Warriors, and to aspects that Danneel presented,” the professor continues explaining, opening the book in brown leather at a bookmark, “The book covers your legend, and, in addition to the version Danni sent me, contains some codicils. Right here,” he follows the rows with his index finger, “It says that: _each of the Warriors is marked, except Time, for Time is immortal and the lines measure life. But the life is not counted in years, nor days_ _,_ _n_ _or months, for it is not the human's life. This is the life of the Warrior, exposed only when Truth is met with Time, the Darkness that the soul carries and the limits to which the vessel can hold its burden. It is only one that can make the Darkness meet the Light, and that is Sacrifice – for that is what th_ _e Sacrifice_ _Warrior means. His purpose is to live in the dark to give his brothers and sisters Light._ _When the_ _life he gives_ _turn_ _s_ _ash to embers,_ _then_ _they_ _will all_ _meet their true identity._ ”

The professor seems to recite all of it without even breathing, completely engrossed in what he's reading.

“So,” Padalecki asks, brows furrowed in thought, hands clasped together on the table, concentrating all attention on Tahmoh, “What we have, the markings... that counts life of the Warrior?”

Tahmoh nods. “More, I'm guessing, means you're closer to death. Or whatever the end for a Warrior is – and that, it doesn't explain in the book.”

Padalecki nods, too, not an ounce of surprise readable on his features. Jensen deduces he's thought about this before. There's a tiny drop of pity that slips into Jensen's annoyance with the man. After all, Padalecki’s the one with the most marks…the one _closer to death._

“I've discussed this a little with T,” Dannel says, voice soothing, “and we think that it's something...I don't know how to explain it. But if we truly are these things, such as _Belief, Peace_ …but we are also, undeniably, humans – then something has got to give.”

“You're saying it's the tie between, uh, the _magical_ entity and the human vessel?” Jensen tries to understand, re-arranging the theory that he had in his head, and not even blinking while he asks a question that would have made him get a rosary and a cross a month before, sent the someone else who asked it to an exorcist.

“Yes,” she turns brown eyes to focus on Jensen, “in a way. Whichever Warriors we are, all of us, I sincerely doubt we have lived up to the name.” She looks at Chris, at Padalecki. “Anyone here never lie? Never had any doubts? Never had a conflict?”

There's a uniform shake of the head across the table.

“Right, so – by following some of our less laudable human instincts, we might lean towards this Darkness. Warriors, on the other hand, are born of _Light_ , that's what the legend says – so that's how we interpreted it. Tahmoh likes this stuff, so he researched more than just on the internet.”

Jensen's thought after he finally understands what Danneel is saying completely is that this is going from bad to worse for Padalecki.

“But they do seem to have a purpose for Sacrifice?” Padalecki asks, accepting the unpleasant direction the conversation is taking for him.

Or simply not seeing it. Because, Jensen suddenly realizes, he may be the only one who’s tied Padalecki to the title of Sacrifice, however insubstantially.

Shit.

”Yes,” Tahmoh replies immediately, activated by the research-adjacent question, reaching for the thin notebook. “It does seems so. But the only other thing I could find that mentions markings similar to yours, and the concept of Light that appears in the legend so frequently is a diary from somewhere around the 1500s. One of the days documented...this is what the author writes.” He thumbs the pages to somewhere in the middle, and starts reading, voice strong, even.

” _...they pulled his clothes off him under my eyes. The dirty white shirt and too-large pants, his boots, all of it, even his underlinens, and crushed him to a wall. They revealed the markings. But they did not understand. He was not a thief, he was not a wizard, and much less a murderous servant revolting against his king, the one that they were looking for. But how could I have told them? How could they have Belief, if we also miss it? And so they burned Sacrifice at the stake, my beloved, my heart, my Time found again and again… I watched as_ _the markings glowed like gold, and Light was born again. It has taken course. But - I cannot do this_ _for another life_ _. I cannot see how he leaves his humanity behind. Must this always be? It seems like there is a breaking point coming nearer; it already feels like too much._ ”

Tahmoh finishes, and silence envelops the conference room.

“Where did you find this?” is all Jensen can say, voice weak and coarse, lines read aloud robbing him of clarity.

“Our university's library. It has an entire section dedicated to mythology, and a very well put together search system.”

Oh, fuck the search system.

Jensen wants to know how someone could get so close to depicting fragments of his dreams like the fire, the glowing marks…

Life.

Light.

Darkness. Fire. Time. _Sacrifice_.

Threads of Jensen's thoughts knot together, make a single one.

“...look, man, no offense, that's not particularly encouraging,” Chris cuts in through Jensen's growing anxiety.

Tahmoh simply shrugs. “I suppose not.”

Jensen, for his part, considers that telling his boss that he had a vision with _S_ _acrifice_ written in the sand immediately after their meeting and another dream where Padalecki disintegrated, and another…but, it doesn’t seem like it would help the proceedings much. So he stays silent, with a mind to only reveal those things when he's sure of what he's implying.

“Okay,” Chris whistles. “Sorry I asked about the marks. Seems to have led us to weird territories.”

Jensen, despite himself, laughs.

A small smile spreads over Padalecki's features, too.

Chris barges on in typical fashion. “Anyone have anything else to add? You know, something...lighter? That doesn't lead to us thinking about how it would feel to be burned alive?”

“Well,” Padalecki quickly takes the ball in his hands, “There is a clue that we've jumped over. Tahmoh, did you say the markings are exposed when Truth meets Time?”

Shit.

Jensen should have jumped on that. But he got caught in everything else, in telling the difference between illusion and reality.

“Yes. That's written in the book.”

“The first marks appeared when Danneel and I met,” Padalecki ponders.

Chris intervenes. “When was that?”

“A few months ago.”

“I’ve had mine for over a year,” Chris says, somewhat pained.

Padalecki frowns. “That's when you met Danneel?”

“Didn't make the connection then - but, yeah.”

“So Danneel –”

Is either Truth or Time.

“...but she has marks,” Padalecki continues an unfinished thought, one closer to the conclusion than Jensen's.

“So I'm...” Danneel whispers, shocked, following along. “You are saying I'm… Truth.”

Yeah. Definitely.

It makes sense, in Jensen's head. The little he'd known her, it fits, it doesn't shift Jensen's perception of her one bit, just strengthens it, contours it more clearly.

But then…

“Wait, then who's Time?” Chris asks, catching up to the mystery van.

Exactly.

_Truth is met with Time._

Truth, Danneel. Chris met Truth. But Chris has marks, too.

And Danneel. Hers only appeared when she met Padalecki.

“Let's try to look at it differently,” Padalecki says. “Out of the five of us, only Jensen and Tahmoh could be Time. They're the only ones who don't have the substantial body markings.”

Chris grimaces. “Right, but we don't even know that the prof is one of us.”

Padalecki looks at Danneel, exchanging a meaningful look with her. “We'll have to assume he is, for now.”

“I don't know,” Chris shakes his head.

What he wants to say is, _I don't think Jensen is the magical unicorn in this story –_ and it's true, it's hard for Jensen to think about any other dynamic than Chris as the guy who always keeps his cool when the world goes belly up and Jensen as the one who spazzes out at regular intervals.

So, yes, it's a pertinent doubt. How could Jensen be Time, Guardian of Guardians?

“I, for one, am betting on him,” Tahmoh says, unexpectedly, pointing towards Jensen. “The tattoo on his wrist, infinity.”

“I think it's a Sigil,” Jensen interjects.

“...his _Sigil,_ ” Tahmoh course-corrects. “Time is infinite. _Truth, peace, strength..._ I would argue that they are not.”

Jensen doesn't care that Tahmoh is there only because Danneel dragged him kicking and screaming. He's a good guy to have around.

“About that. Why does Jensen get to have a _Sigil_ and we're stuck with the drawings of a two-year-old?” Chris asks.

Definitely a mature reaction.

“You,” Tahmoh starts, then, presumably feeling the daggers shooting out of Danneel's eyes, retreats. “ _We_ should all have Sigils. It says so in the book.”

Chris raises his hands, exposing the wrists hidden under leather.

“I see none.”

Tahmoh doesn't answer.

“There's no explanatory remarks for what they are in the book?” Jensen inquires.

Preferably with pictures and instructions to clear up the ifs and the maybes they have.

“No,” the professor replies.

Of course there aren't. Something being simple would be too much.

“It only says that the Sigils are bound to the abilities each Warrior has.”

“We have _abilities_?” Chris asks, hopeful, eyes of a kid meeting Santa.

“None that we can pinpoint,” Danneel disappoints him.

Maybe that's the endless loop they are caught in: no abilities, no Sigil, no Sigil, no ability. Jensen says so out loud.

“You may be right,” Tahmoh acquiesces.

“But,” Danneel speaks, voice quieter than usual, “even if I am...Truth the Warrior... what does that mean, exactly? What… _ability_ would that entail?”

What that means is that this meeting will leave everyone with an existential crisis.

At least that's Jensen's opinion.

On one hand, he's more confused than he was before – the universe took pity on Jensen and gave him more pieces of the puzzle, but the joke is they don't fit, probably aren't even for the picture Jensen's building.

On the other hand, he’s not alone in his confusion anymore.

For her part, Danneel, a woman Jensen appreciated as composed, with an answer for everything, seems at a loss.

“I doubt we'll understand that by sitting here and talking about it, who's who and what it means.” Jensen says, “The key might be to get all seven of us together.”

The Warrior Time might be still be one of the missing people.

Or – possible option – they're looking at it from the wrong perspective. It's not like the text of the legend or that of the stuff Tahmoh had retrieved was excessively on-point with its descriptions and explanations. There's biased interpretation, and they're all guilty of it. But even though Jensen grasps this as a possibility, he cannot force himself to look at it in another way.

So he fastens on the detail that can't be argued with. He watches, in turn, how Chris, Padalecki, Tahmoh, Danneel have turned to look at him, to listen.

“There has to be a reason for the legend being about seven people...maybe it's like a mechanism. And maybe if we activate it, we get the answers we need.”

“I think he's right,” Padalecki contributes after a few seconds of contemplation. “Tahmoh, is there anything more in the books to clear things up?”

The professor purses his lips. “Not really. I would say there is _more_ , but things that only create more confusion.”

_Such as?_ Jensen wants to ask.

He doesn't get to. Tahmoh continues on his own, apparently getting the hang of this mutual conversation thing.

“There are talks about a guide and a Sanctuary.”

“That's – the Sanctuary was in the original text we read,” Jensen observes.

“Yes, but it's nothing solid, that is what I am trying to say. There are two or three lines for each, and one cannot infer anything decidedly useful from them in either case – I do not even understand whether the guide is a person or simply another informative text.”

“We'll come back to those things later,” Padalecki interrupts Jensen, who had just opened his mouth to say something. “I'd asked with the hope that we can explain what we are confronted with directly. The Guide and the Sanctuary seem not to be in that category for now.”

“The freaking Guide should be,” Chris mumbles. “We're frying our brain cells as it is.”

“Is it all right if we leave that discussion for next time?” Padalecki asks, staring pointedly at Jensen, bypassing Chris' complaint.

Jensen doesn't want to leave it for next time...he's curious. But Chris _and_ Padalecki are right – their synapses are close to overloading for now. So he nods, grudgingly.

Padalecki picks up from where he had left off, content with the response. It's Jensen's luck that it doesn't take much to appease his boss.

“Then our next step is to find the missing Warriors, as Jensen said.”

Good turn of conversation: something easier. The way to find them only sums up to playing the most complicated version of the game of telephone in history.

“Anyone have any ideas?” Padalecki asks the room.

The silence is answer enough.

“T and I,” Danneel says, seeing as no one says anything, “Don't have anyone else in mind.”

For a brief second, Jensen ponders Tahmoh's willingness to admit it even if he had. He decides to take that at face value, not really having an alternative right now.

Jensen doesn't know anyone either.

Chris was it. The connection – there's literally no one else in his life that could qualify. Jensen’s friend hierarchy goes Chris, Adrienne, the neighbor Aldis, and his dog Ike, and his coworkers at _kandbee_. And Jensen is not particularly attached to the order for the last ones.

But Chris...he might have someone. Sophia, police academy crush, girlfriend on and off for the last ten years.

Chris is the next to speak – but things doesn't go as Jensen expects them to.

“The way Jen explained it, there's gotta be something strong, right?” he asks.

“Yeah, a connection. Something different from anything else you've experienced,” Danneel explains.

“Then, no, there’s no one in my life like that besides Jensen.” He turns to look at Padalecki, pensive. “Not when I think about how I felt when I met you, boss.”

“Jared.”

“Yeah, anyway, there's people I care about, and...this,” Chris frowns. “A feeling like I know you, almost freaking physical, hit me like a mack truck.”

“Same here,” Padalecki agrees.

And silence, again, just the right moment for Jensen to process Chris and Sophia notbeing in the same category as Chris and Padalecki.

“How 'bout you?” Chris quickly turns the tables on Jensen's boss. “You got a lead, _Jared_?”

Padalecki replies easily, clearly an answer he'd prepared already.

“Actually, yes. A childhood friend.”

Chris gestures with his hand. “Great, then let's go see him. Her. Whatever.”

“Tell them the other part,” Jensen can't stop himself from saying.

Padalecki looks at Jensen without too much... _happiness_ in his eyes, but obeys Jensen.

“He lives in Europe now.”

“Europe,” Danneel comments, flat. Near her, Tahmoh looks _done_. “Europe where?”

Padalecki grimaces. “A village in the Alps. Switzerland.”

“Can you call him? Write, tell him about this?”

Padalecki reveals the cause of that pained grimace.

“His mom informed me that he has no phone, and no internet. She gave me an address, though.”

The lawyer studies Padalecki's face for signs of a joke. She finds none. So she adapts.

“And we are getting there...how?”

Padalecki looks taken aback. “We? You want to come?”

“Dude,” Chris throws in, “No, we wouldn't like, 10 hour flights are not on anyone's Christmas wishlist. And getting time off work is going to be a bitch. But you asked if we're in when we started. We are.”

It's a night for surprises. Jensen hadn't known he'd volunteer to cross an ocean when he’d sat down hours ago.

It's Tahmoh, though, who provides the biggest shock when Padalecki looks at him questioningly, trying to understand if this is really happening.

“I don't believe you, personally,” the professor shrugs. “I don't think any of this could be truly real. But I would like to follow the myth to see where it leads, I can't deny it is an interesting story.”

When even Captain Skeptical joins the gang, there's no escape.

Apparently, they're going to Switzerland.


	9. Chapter 9

The next days are a blur for Jensen. In themselves, they bring nothing unusual: work, runs, subway rides accompanied by music. But Jensen's mind is active, when he is awake, when he sleeps, and the only thing that fills his thoughts are the Warriors, the legend, and the million questions connected to them.

Most frustrating is the impression that he _knows_ already, and the pieces of information he is getting are just fragments of memory, mirrors shattered in smithereens, parts of himself that are one, and millions, contradiction that pulls him apart at the seams.

Jensen wakes, he works, he dreams.

“Do you think you're Time?” Danneel asks Jensen a week after the big meeting, sitting on the uncomfortable airport seats, waiting to check in.

This kind of conversation doesn't seem out of place, it's just a continuation for the ones he carries on alone in his head.

“Even if I was,” Jensen says, playing with the corners of his plane ticket, “What the fuck does that mean?”

Something inside him protests, a sudden tightness in his chest that urges him to abandon evasiveness, to accept it. But Jensen doesn't listen to it. He only deposits the information somewhere in his mind, buried underneath the present.

Danneel chuckles.

“What?” Jensen asks, turning to his right and looking at her.

“It's – you know, we're flying ten hours to meet a guy on little more than a whim, to set up our valiant team of heroes. But we have no idea about anything, really.”

She tells Jensen all this with a serenity that he envies.

“It feels right, though,” Danneel completes, thoughtful, looking at Tahmoh and Chris, who are a few feet away from them, standing and studying the airport screens for their flight.

Jensen follows her gaze.

“It does,” he replies, entirely sincere.

Things make sense right now in a way that Jensen can't verbalize – it is simply a feeling.

“So, Jared?” Danneel inquires.

“He's catching a flight tomorrow evening.”

That's not the answer she is seeking. However, Jensen doesn't elaborate, either. He doesn't want to think about how they're going to do this.

Padalecki had told him straight-up he wasn't risking anything by being on the same plane with Jensen. His argument was that the two of them in a closed space, ten thousand feet in the air, and unknown mystical energies should not be things that occupy the same space, and Jensen agreed.

Padalecki had organized the trip, had arranged and paid for the plane tickets and the lodgings, with the understanding that they would wait in the hotel for his arrival 24 hours later, and then they would set out on their _quest_ together . The official story was some loose ends to tie up for work before leaving. Nobody asked for the unofficial one – they knew already.

“He passed on his friend’s location, though,” Jensen continues, like that's what they were talking about all along, the administrative aspects of the trip. “And it could take us a while to figure out how to get there.”

“Yes, I saw,” Danneel agrees, going along easily. “From what I gather, it's not exactly on the main highway.”

Jensen grimaces. “And it's not an exact address.”

It's literally the name of a small village, _Goschenen_ , with another long z- and -w filled German word underneath, which, upon a quick search, Jensen found was the name of an ale house within the small mountain community. And then, _Ask about Chad Murray_ in Padalecki's handwriting.

Right.

Elucidating.

Well, what he can definitely say about this is that it will be interesting.

“We'll find him,” Danneel declares, sure of herself.

She betrays some anxiety, though, in the way her foot bounces slightly, repeatedly hits the side of her small suitcase with the tip of her shoe.

Jensen mumbles something in return, neither acquiescing or disagreeing.

“Tahmoh?” he asks, threads of thought leading him to the man most likely to help them understand what they're looking for. But he's genuinely curious how the professor is faring – if he's managed to garner more belief in the story. “How's he doing?”

Jensen doesn't mention that he thought they'd be one man short today, beside Padalecki.

“He alternates between raiding second-hand book shops for mythology encyclopedias and telling me I'm crazy.”

“Crazy?”

“Well, _naive,_ ” Danneel admits. “But that's been a point of contention for us for years, so, whatever. He's here,” she finishes, smiling slightly.

Jensen's not the only one that uses less words than necessary for the things he means.

The layers of Danneel's and Tahmoh's relationship are complicated, tangled and held together by moments and words that only they have knowledge and appreciation of.

Jensen's just about to say something when Chris turns to face them, gestures with his head towards the gates. “Come on, they're calling our flight.”

Jensen goes, and the reply lost.

He keeps to himself the feeling with which he is left after the short exchange with Danneel.

Yearning.

The contradictory wish Padalecki would be here – good, bad, doesn't matter how things go. Maybe then, the feeling that something important is missing would go away.

Jensen spends the first part of the flight looking at the cloudy night sky from his window seat and leafing through the notebook – the diary – Tahmoh had borrowed from the university's library.

It's hard to decipher. Some days' notes are words, simply strung together without forming a sentence, letters that don't have any meaning for Jensen.

_Servant, 3, left, court, A,_ and many more like it.

Some hint at things known to Jensen: _king, strength. Belief, messenger, red-gold –_ they make him think that they're identities, Warriors unmasked but protected by someone who watches them closely.

The legend is not talked about directly. The names of the Seven are sparingly mentioned, and the word Warrior is not present throughout the notebook, but the subject matters are too close, too similar to their thoughts for it not to be about the same thing.

It's a conclusion the few cursive, coherent lines that find themselves between the coded inscribings support.

One reads:

_Reason, in its truest sense, is inflexible, inelastic. I am only now getting its motive for existing. It is, I believe, the steel structure over which is poured the concrete of the spirit. They...the others...the Peace or the Belief, they cannot exist in liquid form. They need shape, and that is what Reason provides, despite its efforts to oppose their intrinsic meaning._

It makes Jensen think of the discussion they had about the markings, the human vessels.

_How much are they a Warrior, how much are they human?_

More senseless musings.

“You good, Ackles?” Chris asks, voice muted.

Jensen closes the diary, looks at his friend.

“You're asking _me?_ I'm not the one who started praying at take-off.”

Chris huffs. “There's times – like when you're in a metal box in the fucking sky – when you want to believe there's a god who lives there and he's listening.”

Jensen remembers something.

“You know, someone told me it was like a rollercoaster. Once you get on, there's nothing more you can do, even if it flies off. Just enjoy the ride.”

“Thanks, Jensen. That's helpful, really,” Chris' strangled voice accompanies Danneel's chuckle. “Tell me I’m gonna die and I can’t do anything about it. Just... can you talk, Ackles, please? You're always going on about your weird-ass dreams. Anything to forget where I am,” he adds, finally getting to what he wanted to say from the beginning, but was too chicken to say straight-up and clear.

“Fine,” Jensen sighs.

But it's not too much of a fight.

He recounts all of his latest visions, in detail, like never before, just loud enough that Danneel and Tahmoh can hear them too.

How sometimes he lands in a forest, endless green surrounding him. There is no ground and sky. Simply trees, tall and imposing, letting their branches intertwine, forming a natural ceiling.

Jensen tries to describe the small opening from where he watches, round, protected by the thick trunks of the trees, Light, Darkness only in between.

And finally, himself, the perception of only a silhouette that gathers the colors of its surroundings, the smells, the movement – the invisible voices that can be heard, muttering, familiar, but indistinct.

He confesses to Chris that there, _here_ , he feels…whole. One piece.

When Chris is already sleepy, lulled by a Xanax and the regular cadence of Jensen's voice, Jensen talks about the times he touches the incandescent ocean, cold and unyielding, with his toes. He's told Chris about the beach before. This time, he recounts the feelings he experiences – the _things_ he couldn't put into words until then.

He talks to Tahmoh, who watches Jensen unashamedly curious, and to Danneel, who burns a hole staring into the seatback in front of her, explaining how he is scattered across the shore, and the times he is a watcher, sky inviting Jensen in its off-white mist to dissolve, spread, and become one with the heavy blanket of clouds that rests on it. How he feels every metallic grain that shines in the sand, eternities brought together and seconds torn apart.

And, between all, he is just a man, standing, footsteps leaving their mark, foam of the waves reaching his toes, sending shivers down his spine.

The dreams are all fragments. They are not continuous, there are no meaningful relations between them, there is no bigger picture. Not one Jensen can see, at least.

Reason – that's what Jensen would need to understand it.

As it is, it's just _feeling._

Floating.

After a night of stories and not much sleep, they touch down in Zurich. They greet the sunlight and the wind with bleary eyes and silence, the seven-hour time jump a bitch, and get on a train for the next part of their trip. 

Nobody says anything. Chris only changes the places he sleeps, Danneel watches the view from the window, and Tahmoh jots down things in a notebook, throwing periodic glances to his watch, and to Jensen.

Jensen joins Danneel. The snow-covered mountains he can see in the distance are comforting, and so is the message he gets from Padalecki as the train is making its way to Lucerne, where they will spend the night.

_Landed safely?_

Jensen types a quick, affirmative reply, then adds, unneeded,

_still coming?_

Padalecki replies in an instant. _Of course._

It's strange, how it grows stronger, the absurd thought that Padalecki should be across from him. Even if it has to be at the other end of the train car. Jensen blames the jet lag for how he reacts to the text Padalecki sends next:

_Although I am wondering if being on different continents is not the perfect solution to our problem. :)_

Jensen stares at the phone screen for a good two minutes.

Is that supposed to be a joke? That's what the smiley face is supposed to mean?

His indignation is transmitted through a short text - _Ha-ha_ _-_ and Jensen muttering under his breath silently.

If that wasn't a joke – Jensen's wouldn’t stay one night in this frosty corner of the world, he doesn't care that it's pretty.

“Jensen,” Tahmoh catches his attention just as Jensen touches the keycard to his room door. “Can we find a moment to talk later today?”

He seems a bit hesitant in asking, not an attitude that Jensen associates with the professor.

Jensen frowns, reluctance in his own reply.

“Sure,” he shrugs. “After we get settled in?”

Tahmoh nods, mutters an “all right” and disappears through his door. Jensen stays in front of his for a few moments more, watching the small light that validated his card turn from green to red.

What would Tahmoh have to say to him?

“Ackles, you have to push the handle,” a refreshed Chris passes by him.

“Oh, fuck off, Chris.”

Jensen enters the small room, refraining from turning and showing Chris the middle finger – he has _some_ limits – and revels in the solitude and the chilly, clean air that the open balcony door brings.

“So,” Chris starts the proceedings, map in his hands, throne of pillows under him. On Jensen's bed, with which Jensen barely managed to get acquainted, only a few hours after they had checked in.

Danneel is on the floor, tapping away at the keyboard of the laptop between her stretched legs, and Tahmoh is the quiet spectator in the sole armchair of orange velvet.

“We have until tomorrow when the boss arrives to get the lay of the land,” Chris continues, unperturbed. “I asked down at the reception desk – the village we need to get at is about an hour from here. By car.”

“I'm renting one,” Danneel announces, looking up and settling her reading glasses. “Well, two.”

Right. Him and Padalecki, travel issues. Key word: _separate._

“Okay,” Jensen says, failing to understand why this travel planning required an extensive gathering.

He decides Chris' ability is to read minds, because the next thing he says is, “I asked about it – about the legend, if they have something like that here. Thought there has to be a reason we were pointed to this place.”

Or, Chris can't kick the good old interrogating habit.

“And?”

“And no,” Chris deadpans, making Jensen want to strangle him. “The guy never heard of it. But he heard of a man – a painter. Made a place for himself in the mountains near Goschenen, and almost never comes down to the village. People say he's a little nutty,” he completes, twirling his finger around the temple ever so eloquently.

“And you think that's our guy?” Jensen asks. Padalecki hadn’t said a word about what his friend did for a living. It would be a convenient coincidence if this Chad guy was an artist.

But Chris goes for the easier commonality. “Nutty is our crowd.”

“...exactly how _nutty_?”

Chris' lips press into a thin line. “Well, the guy at the desk told me that the word is that the guy paints… _God._ He claims to see Him.”

“Like, in nature, or?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Jensen lets himself lean back on the wall across from Chris, where he'd found a comfortable spot lying on the mellow green carpeted floor.

“You were praying to him on the plane,” Jensen shrugs, half-smiling.

“You're not listening, Jen, this guy says that he can see divinity, and show it to other people. That _he's part of something, something bigger,_ that God gave him a mission _._ ”

Jensen frowns. “Not the only one who believes something like it.”

“Dude,” Chris objects, glaring at Jensen. “What everyone knows about him 'round these parts – the guy's been waiting for the other special people to come to him.”

“Sergeant Kane thinks we are the special,” Tahmoh interjects, bored by the back-and-forth bickering. “And – here I must disagree with him – that some sort of divinity is at the root of the legend.”

“It's as good a starting point as anything,” Chris argues.

Jensen would be inclined to agree. The alternative is choosing a point on the map and knocking on doors.

He lets his head fall back to the cold wall, and closes his eyes, listening to Chris and Tahmoh argue about theological aspects, debating, philosophizing, reiterating points from their last meeting.

Jensen doesn't know how much time passes until he falls asleep. It comes easier than ever before, a detachment from the solidity of the room and a free fall into the forest, lit by a spring sun. Everything moves slower, more peacefully – his thoughts, Chris' voice, Danneel's fingers on the keyboard, the wind outside, as the warmth of the room pulls him under.

Six ash-drawn paths contour themselves under his closed eyes, snow on each side, and silhouettes walk on them, some of them clear, some indistinct. The paths on the far left and right are empty, but he can distinguish Danneel, Tahmoh, Chris, and Padalecki on the others.

They're walking upwards on a hill, trying to reach Jensen in his small, enclosed clearing.

But they can't.

Not yet.

The barrier of what's missing lets the trees close around Jensen, hides the Warriors from his sight, and leaves Jensen watching the Darkness.

Waiting.

When Jensen wakes up from his deep sleep, his gaze meets the white of the ceiling. Daylight trickles in through the space where the curtains don't meet.

The clock on the nightstand tells him it's 9:33.

It's morning.

Jensen has two problems now: one, how did he magically teleport from the floor to his bed and two, how on earth did he not hear the herd of elephants leaving?

Jensen rubs a hand over his face, observes that he's still dressed in yesterday's clothes, t-shirt, hoodie, and jeans. Checking his phone, he sees a message from Chris:

_couldn't wake you up, sleeping beauty, so we just let you sleep. call when you return to the land of the living._

He does.

Chris answers on the first ring, informs Jensen that he gotten provisions for the upcoming road trip, and that he talked to Padalecki. He's he's arriving within the hour. That bit of information has the effect of finally connecting Jensen to reality and getting him moving. He's about to jump in the shower when he spots a handwritten note on the nightstand.

_We really should talk, Jensen. Before Padalecki arrives – you want to listen to me. Find me in room 235 when you wake up. - T_

Tahmoh.

Again. What the fuck could be so important? To talk with Jensen, a stranger, practically – _before Padalecki gets here_.

Jensen's curious. He really is.

But for a reason he can't define, he spends the hour he has at his disposal doing everything except think about Tahmoh and his note. Jensen has the strange sensation that whatever it is the professor wants to talk about, Jensen needs to hear, but won't like it.

So he postpones the conversation. Indefinitely.

At 10:30, Jensen goes down to the lobby, returns his keycard, and parks his luggage near one of the yellow sofas, curling around a cup of hot coffee he'd snatched from the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet in the dining area of the hotel.

No one else is there, which may be why, when Jensen hears the doors open behind him, he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that it's Padalecki. The air changes. Jensen does, too, physically, mentally. From a solid state, he goes to liquid, barely finding a tether to grasp before slipping down, spiraling.

Padalecki, presumably feeling the same distress, steps away, long shaky strides that come into Jensen's field of view only when he reaches the sofas on the other side of the lobby.

Good. Now that there's twenty feet of empty space between them, Jensen's good.

He raises his head to look up. Padalecki's wearing a forced smile.

“Told you the different continents thing was a good idea,” he says, hands in the pockets of a gray jacket that is similar to Danneel's. It makes Padalecki's shoulders look broader and his waist narrower. Athletic sportswear on vacation, seeming to Jensen like Padalecki just stepped out of a magazine. The only thing that ruins the impression is the shapeless bag slung over Padalecki’s shoulder and his eyes, which are blood-shot, tired.

Jensen bursts into a short chuckle.

“You know, might not be enough,” Jensen continues the joke, but in a soft tone, finding himself suddenly devoid of any wish to spar with Padalecki.

“Where are the others?” his boss asks, tilting his head towards the elevators.

“Don't know. Making some nefarious plans, I think.”

They don't have time to wonder more about it – Danneel, Chris, and Tahmoh step out of the elevator, luggage behind them, sweeping the whole group towards the parking lot, with Padalecki in front and a reluctant-to-leave-perfectly-good-coffee Jensen in the rear.

Like a SWAT team in training, preparing for a mission, they deposit all the luggage in the cars, exchange keys, settle drivers, establish meeting points efficiently. The only inconvenience is his and Padalecki's attempt to stay at least ten feet away at all times, which results in some ridiculous avoidance dances.

Even with that, in under ten minutes, Jensen finds himself in the passenger seat of a bright blue sedan, Chris at the wheel. They get out of the parking lot, leading the way for the similarly colored car that holds Padalecki and Tahmoh, driven by Danneel.

Chris doesn't ask why Jensen's hands don't stop shaking, even fifteen minutes in and a good mile away from the rest of the group.

Which is good, because Jensen wouldn't know what to tell him.

The day's sky, initially patches of clear blue and white clouds, now homogenizes in a bleak, gray cover that blankets the surroundings in diffuse light. The majestic peaks of the mountains command the landscape, become intimidating as Chris drives into them, and they travel between walls of rock and a drop to nothingness, natural borders to the narrow road. On sporadic plateaus they can overlook stretches they've left behind, a sight that puts the distance they’ve travelled in perspective.

But nowhere here does Jensen find the forest in his dreams. There are patches of green on the mountain sides where snow hasn't claimed its territory yet, but nothing like the endless one that he has seen so clearly. And yet, somehow, Jensen knows it's here.

He thumbs the pages of the diary again. Words itch in his mind, knock on doors closed for a lifetime, and he reads, again and again, lines that seem to push Jensen, make his composure fracture, let the forgotten knowledge slip out from between the cracks. Half of him wants to; Jensen _needs_ to – but the other half pushes it back with the same obstinance that drove him to ignore Tahmoh - fear, in its purest form, cause unknown.

_I found them...or they have found me. I am lost as to which is the reality. I am them, and they are the pieces. Belief, and I – we built the Sanctuary._

A row of houses as they enter Goschenen, a man on a bench outside a fence, watching as they pass, as Jensen reads on.

_I know their future. Or I used to. The Guide used to tell me. I used to know so surely what to do, when nothing existed. But he is gone, he is blind, I've trapped him in his past, and mine...and nothing can save me. Not Strength, not Belief. Because they can't save him._

Pebbled stone walls, dark wood crossposts, colored glass windows, fragments creating a postcard vignette.

_I loathe the human in me as much as I love him. I, Time. The one who lives._

They stop in front of a large two-story building. It is taller than the houses down the road, but it is built in the same simple style, cream-colored walls and dark roof, the side of the mountain its backdrop. A sign above the wooden door bears the name Jensen has written on the note in his pocket.

The ale house.

There are tables outside the entrance, presumably for the summers when the weather allows the view down the mountain to be admired. Chris steps towards them. Jensen pauses with his hand on the car door, scrutinizes the scattered houses, uneven terrain that matches their twisting route.

They're getting closer to it – whatever _it_ is.

The Sanctuary, the legend, the remaining Warriors.

Jensen feels it, _believes_ it.

But he doesn't _see._ Where to go from here? Chasing for similarities with the worlds built in his visions doesn't help Jensen – the panorama before him is from the same picture album, but as different from his dreams as day is from night. Where is the sunlight he feels through tree branches in the visions? Because the rain has started trickling down in reality.

He follows Chris to the tables, raises the hood of his jacket, sees Chris do the same. His friend studies his surroundings, not in awe, like Jensen, but simply assessing.

“We wait for Padalecki to go in.”

A statement from Chris, not a question, as he stares at the open door of the establishment.

“Yeah. This is his project,” Jensen answers with a tinge of resentment.

Isn’t Time supposed to be the leader? But Jensen, knowing he doesn’t have a clue of how to proceed, either, so he squashes the feeling back.

“Where do you go from here?” Chris asks, not content with letting the sound of the rain hitting the pebbled road be their only accompaniment.

Jensen looks at him. “What do you mean?”

“The guy, the painter, he lives in the mountains. These are the freaking mountains. He comes _down_? From where?”

They've reached the end of the road. At least, in a motorized vehicle. The ale house is on top of a small hill, a miniature of the large mountains that surround them. The paths leading onward are streaks of alpinist trails rather than driveable tourist tracks.

Jensen stares at them.

He hates contributing to the stereotype of computer nerd, but, he truly hopes he's the immortal one if he's required to climb any of it. Even the running sessions with Chris have not prepared Jensen for this.

He searches the mountainside ahead of them for any sign of a dwelling within reasonable climbing distance. Nothing.

Jensen turns towards the forest behind the ale house. It’s thicker, dark, and from where he stands, not terribly penetrable. Though maybe there are paths beaten by the people that live here, trails known only to them, secrets they aren't willing to share.

A rustle among the trees draws Jensen's attention.

A flash of white.

“Chris,” Jensen elbows his friend to turn around, “do you see that?”

Chris twists, follows Jensen's gaze.

"What? See what?"

"There."

Jensen points towards to where the trees begin. A girl, hiding. Playing. Innocence in her eyes, lightness in her feet. Smile warm, inviting.

"Jen, I don't see anything."

Jensen realizes Chris can't see, because she's not real. She belongs with the black sand and green sea, to the silence that surrounds Jensen in his dreams.

The rain washes her away, little by little, makes a discolored painting.

Jensen's legs move without thought.

“The hell are you doing?” Chris protests, fingers barely missing Jensen's arm as Jensen steps forward, avoids the rest of the tables, and begins a slow jog toward the trees.

The little girl holds Jensen’s gaze, motionlessness of the immaterial.

Jensen steps over the short stone wall that marks the edge of the property and breaks into a run.

She smiles at Jensen when he gets close.

Finally - he reaches her.

She takes his hand.

It’s ice cold, and the coldness spreads, seeps under Jensen’s skin, through his clothes, and he's frozen, until he becomes one with her, with his own dreams. Jensen is no longer aware of Chris' voice, yelling after him, or the rumble of a car that comes to a stop abruptly. Other voices. Noises.

They’re gone.

He hears only her, the young woman. Jensen is both one and a million pieces.

"Hello, Time,” she says, pressing fingertips to his wrist, making the symbol burn painfully. It doesn’t flicker this time. It’s Light, burning continuously, permanent, infinite. “I am your Guide.”


	10. Chapter 10

To step from the certainty of the physical world into a world that doesn't know itself, a fluid mix of colors and sounds and edges – it's harsh. Jensen's head spins with the effort.

He travels, that much he knows, even though he feels like he is the static point and the surroundings are swirling past him. He is aware that he is not, indeed, a motionless point.

But the strokes of tangible go in circles around him; they're identical, insignificant, unreal. The pieces he sees are out of place, they start at the end, and end at the beginning, they disappear, they come to be, grains of sand in an hourglass, floating.

Time meets its moments with kindness, it collects them in his hands, and strings them together. Long, intertwined threads, Light and Dark, from the first soul to the last emptiness, linear, immense, traveled, lived, understood, clear memories, broken fragments of the future, loops, days, nights, minutes, seconds, eternities.

Among all, Jensen stands as a man.

He, for as much as he tries, cannot grasp the full meaning of what is happening.

Only that she stops. The child-not-child, his improbable Guide.

_Guide who will reveal itself with time_.

They stop amidst green branches woven together in an intricate design, hiding the sky from sight. A line of trees, a circle made of tree trunks that play a game of solid and effervescent contrast. They borrow a part of Jensen. They become protectors and carriers of Time.

The Guide stands there, ghost in the unreal. Jensen faces her. An instinct he'd never trusted until it gives him words.

“You're my Guide.” Certainty, not a question.

She is not what Jensen ever imagined. 

“I am,” she answers, watching him.

As if Jensen should know something more than he does, and he has been called upon to answer.

“I am your need. I am peace.”

“What?”

The other Warriors, they've been human. Real.

“You misunderstand. I am not the Warrior. I am always simply what you seek. And for a long while now, you have been looking for peace.”

“I - ” Jensen starts, with the intent to protest.

But this is not a conversation that's normal – answers are given before Jensen thinks of the questions, replies sounded out like thoughts strung together in his mind, without pause.

“You should not try to lie, Time. I know when you do.”

“How?” Jensen barely manages to get out.

“I am you,” she answers, this time more patient. “I am Time, the fragment of yourself that holds the past and the future. So you can be _one_. A man.”

This tiny figure, Time and Guide.

“I could be a dove, if you preferred it. A tree. Any symbol of your own choosing.”

Her pale, thin lips curve into a slow smile.

Jensen weighs the ups and downs of talking to a tree.

Without waiting for Jensen's input, she waves a small hand toward herself. What has been under Jensen's eyes deconstructs to shards of color. They rebuild. Now, a woman, a brunette shorter than Jensen, dressed in faded purple sweatpants and a white, sleeveless top faces him. 

“I can even be the Warrior of Peace. At least, on the outside. My essence will always be Time.”

“I...I haven't met her,” Jensen rasps, following the tattoos on the arms of his Guide with his gaze, fascinated and utterly perplexed.

They are not random marks. There is a colorful array of bright orange lilies inside dark green leaves on her left arm, and a black arrow, long and simple, that stretches from wrist to elbow on the right.

“You have met all the Warriors. You are the one who chose them.”

_I didn't_ , Jensen wants to say.

“You have. All Warriors that existed, and all Warriors that will be, you have chosen them. Not with your human mind and instincts, but with those of Time. You have seen them, you have followed their path from end to the beginning, and you have written their fate as they write it themselves.”

No. He hasn’t.

“I don’t understand!” Jensen yells, hands balling into fists - and he’d take a swing, he’s there, mentally, only he doesn’t where to hit.

He wants to.

Jensen wants a simple, rational explanation, and with each ambiguous reply, his frustration rises.

The Guide remains completely calm.

“Your understanding is not of importance at this moment. We should focus on why we are here.”

Jensen frowns, rebelling at being ordered around. He attempts to take the reigns again.

“Before why… _where_ exactly is here?”

“We are in the Sanctuary,” the Guide tells him, gesturing for him to look around.

Jensen does, realizing he _knew_ what this was before she said it.

“It is real?”

“Real? That is not the right trait to be discussed.”

“Then what is?”

“This is as _real_ as time is, as the legend of the Warriors and the Light.”

“I wish you would tell me things straight-up,” Jensen snaps.

“I am,” the Guide sighs, the first chink in her placid composure. It makes her human. Momentarily. “But you ask me to define things for which you cannot yet understand the meaning. Be patient and attentive. You will find that in this way, you will fill in all the details you need.”

Jensen huffs. He feels like a kid who wants to sit at the adult table, and everyone is telling him _you will, when you grow up,_ never mind that Jensen is fucking Time, Warrior and six-one feet tall.

“Fine,” he agrees reluctantly. “Tell me why we're here.”

It's difficult to surrender to another's will. Made even more challenging by the multitude of questions Jensen wants to ask.

The Guide opens her arms, an all-encompassing wave for the space where they stand.

“We have come to give life to the Sanctuary,” she announces, tone definitive, _I-have-a-dream_ level passion that's supposed to propel Jensen forward to action.

Trouble is, he needs the special Warrior instruction manual, in English, written for a five-year-old, to do that.

But the Guide continues.

“It is the first step of the Warrior journey. The Sanctuary means safety and Light, for those who need it. Somewhere to return from the Darkness. A bridge between their identities. Belief has built and submerged it in Peace. It is up to you now, Time, to offer it meaning.”

Jensen would, if he knew how, exactly.

“Do not worry,” she soothes, stepping closer to Jensen. “You will know, for it is ingrained in you.”

Hopefully.

Someone has a lot of trust in this particular programmer-turned-immortal-Warrior-in-two-weeks.

The Guide turns away from Jensen. Her right hand moves fluidly, the point of her arrow tattoo guiding Jensen’s eyes to the line of trees. The background blurs, the closeness becomes concrete.

She closes her eyes and Jensen realizes he can see through her. He would consider it strange, except it is so abundantly clear that the Guide is not human, that she is a separate, mystical entity that all he can do is watch and try to take it all in.

Jensen watches as her transparent skin glows brightly.

A perfect dance, swift movement as she brings her palms close, makes a ball of light. Then, slowly, the brilliant sphere starts to spin. Of the immaterial is born something solid – metal, shining, a thin blade elongating in response to the motion of the Guide’s hands. A hilt, grainy black, bearing a precious stone, green, the forest and the sea within it. A golden line where the blade meets the hilt. A sword in its final form, an object that waits for Jensen's touch.

The Guide offers it to Jensen.

He does not hesitate. Maybe it's muscle memory, or pieces of Time that fight their way to the forefront, but he _knows_ what he must do _._ Jensen’s left hand grasps its hilt, his right palm skimming above the blade. Letters in black ink appear along it.

_Murray, Chad Michael._

Time turns, lets the Warrior blade in its hands free to find its place in the microcosm. It moves with an easy slide into a background that welcomes it. The walls of the Sanctuary are made more concrete with _Belief._

The Guide forges another sword, identical except for the two golden stones on the bottom. Jensen is not surprised at the name that appears under his fingertips.

_Harris, Danneel._

When Time lets go, _Truth_ spins to the center of the trees, cobwebs of light spreading from its tip towards the margins, and the Sanctuary becomes not merely solid, but substantial, unquestionable, rich.

_Reason_ is simple. The reluctant Warrior, _Tahmoh_ , struggles to fit in uncertainty. But he finds a friend in Time, the true one, that is not tethered by any human side. Reason becomes one with the bones of the Sanctuary, tethering it, making it an immovable starting point even when the end begins.

The Guide hands Time the symbol of the fourth Warrior.

_Kane, Christian_.

_Strength_ seeks the Darkness. Time waits for it to find, to _forge_ itself from non-existence to unyielding power that brings Light to the most hidden of the corners of the Sanctuary.

Maybe it is this last Warrior that reminds Jensen fully that he is not only Time, but also human, not sovereign but simple thread in its fabric. Perhaps that's why he remembers whose name he will see on the sword bearing five blue gemstones on its hilt.

His palm slides over the blade without conscious direction.

_Padalecki, Jared_.

Words and letters that had already carved out a special place in Time's mind, in Jensen's, now _Sacrifice_ , completely, fully, incontestably. But either he cannot let go of it, or the fifth Warrior does not wish to leave. Even when Time lets it out of his hands, unlike the others, it stays with him. It vibrates in Time's hands, wishing to be one with it. The Warrior of Time closes its palm around the blade in an involuntary movement.

The blade cuts skin, and blood, _feeling_ escapes through Time's fingertips.

That's all it takes for metal to turn to ash. An instant where Time holds a dual identity: the entity that knows that this is how it has always been, and the human, Jensen, who is surprised by it. Pain stays behind, but not the knowledge of it. 

Time meets its last Warrior, _Peace._

The name in black lettering reads _Cortese, Genevieve._

This one willfully abandons its Guardian. In a blink, it disintegrates...or lives, in another form, in the air, becomes one with it. The heaviness that it offers to the space tells the story of a purpose, and hope, ethereal companion to the Guide's voice, reverberating again in the Sanctuary.

_“_ It is done,” the sound without a body tells him.

The Guide has left its shape behind.

It is now part of Jensen.

The barricades of this reality catch fire, fractals that spread from the ground towards the sky and burn the light into darkness, black markings and strokes in charcoal. Jensen finds himself renouncing his identity of Time, and becoming just a man in a large, terrifyingly immaterial cage.

He closes his eyes only when the Sanctuary permits.

He opens them at the edge of a forest.

There’s a path in front of Jensen. Unequivocally real. Muddy. Rain, cold on his skin, shining on the pine branches. Jensen follows the path, expands his attention from the details to a whole picture. So do his surroundings - they expand. The narrow track becomes a hiker’s trail, marked with broken branches to the side, and a corridor whose wall of trees melts as Jensen steps.

At the end of the clearing that stretches before him, Jensen sees a cabin. Wooden mahogany beams, large windows, light shining from them in the emerging darkness of the afternoon, beckoning Jensen to come in. 

Jensen knocks hesitantly on the door. After a few long seconds, the creaking sound of it opening reverberates through the silence. Deep blue eyes peer from under disheveled blond hair and meet Jensen's straight-on in an unexpected collision.

Jensen, or _Time_ , rather, knows this man.

“Chad?”

_Belief._

“Yep,” the blonde answers easily. Then, turning to the inside of the house, Chad yells, “Call off the search, people! I found him.”

Jensen's overstrained brain belatedly realizes he'd left Chris and the others behind in the morning, what must be hours ago.

“So, you got lost?” Chad asks, scrutinizing him.

Jensen decides to answer honestly. “No.”

They're going to have to spend more than a few seconds together before Jensen goes into more detail.

However, the Warrior just grins.

“You're exactly like I imagined you,” he says, leaving Jensen to decipher what that means. He tilts his head towards the inside of the house. “Come on in. We have hot chocolate and vodka.”

Jensen steps in, directly into arms that seem to belong to Danneel, by the wonderful floral scent that hits his nostrils. She pulls back off a stunned Jensen after a few moments.

“We were worried,” she explains.

Jensen, still a little dumbfounded, just nods.

There is still a chasm in his brain between what he experienced in the mythical Sanctuary and the pressing chaos of here and now.

He sees Tahmoh wearing an expression of relief, and another woman, a petite brunette whom Jensen immediately knows is _Peace,_ watching them with curiosity.

“Chris, Padalecki?” Jensen asks, filling the empty spaces with all the possibilities.

“Forming the search party,” Chad replies from near him. “You were gone for quite a while, these guys got here around noon.”

“The sergeant is livid,” Danneel supplies helpfully. “And so is Jared. They insisted on going after you.”

“Alone?”

“They didn't let me go with them,” Chad grimaces, right leg twitching a little from the hip, and his hand comes down to steady it. “I'd have slowed them down. But they have their cell phones with them, and contrary to my personal wish, electronics do work here.”

“Call them.”

It's an order as much as it is a plea. A wave of guilt for having disappeared washes over Jensen. He's worried about Chris and Padalecki. They are very much human, or at least not immortal, qualities that don’t mix well with unknown dense forests and darkness..

“Two seconds, and you're already bossing us around?” Chad grins. He's in good spirits after the previous moment of seriousness, turning toward the audience squeezing in the narrow hallway. “All hail our fearless leader. He's here!”

Okay.

This is an another alternate universe.

“Fearless what?” Jensen frowns.

The woman he knows but hasn’t been introduced to, answers instead of Chad.

“Never mind. Chad thinks that because you're in almost all his paintings, he can just throw things like that at you.”

The words she strings together do not make any more sense to Jensen than Chad's.

But he doesn't get to ask any more questions as the group finally realizes they're still standing in the doorway, letting the cold air of the evening in. Closing the door, Danneel, Chad and Genevieve disappear through a doorway to Jensen’s left while Tahmoh, after a meaningful glance thrown at Jensen, climbs up the stairs to the right. 

Jensen follows the larger group.

It is only partly because he wants to find out more about the new Warriors. The other part wants Jensen to have a little more time until he tackles the conversation with Tahmoh.

“First things first,” Chad announces, walking towards the counter in kitchen. “Alcohol?”

Jensen shakes his head. What's the point, when he can't get drunk?

“Hot chocolate it is, then,” Chad declares, getting right to preparing it.

Jensen takes a place on one of the tall seats at the island near Danneel. Across, Genevieve studies him carefully.

“Yeah, he's here,” Danneel's saying, phone to her ear. “I don't know, he hasn't told us.” As she talks, Jensen finds his normal breathing rhythm. “Be safe.”

Jensen looks at her. “They okay?”

“Definitely. Only a little angry – the Sergeant, actually.”

Jensen waves it off. Chris’ anger is a side effect of caring in a temperamental personality. Not the first time Jensen’s experienced it, not anything to take seriously.

“They said they're going down to get the luggage, we left it when we went to find you,” Danneel continues evenly.

There’s no trace of reproach.

Still. He feels bad for having caused a panic in his pursuit of answers. It was thoughtless - and yet, something he needed to do, a choice only in the lack of any other acceptable options. So Jensen doesn't say anything, he simply nods and follows the hands that deposit the hot chocolate in front of him.

There is a loaded pause before Danneel speaks again. “Where were you?”

“I met the Guide,” Jensen replies simply.

Chad throws a look at him. “Guide with a capital g?”

“Yeah.” Then, thinking for a moment, Jensen adds, “They told you?”

“Mostly,” Chad nods. “Warriors, magic, special, you all, me.”

That's an efficient summary.

“And you believed them.”

Chad does embody _Belief –_ if that has any part to play in the easy acceptance, Jensen's grateful. But Genevieve? She has no reason to think they aren't all on a lengthy acid trip.

Chad purses his lips, studying Jensen for a moment before getting up and grabbing something from the counter behind him.

“Guess I should have started with this,” he says, returning to the table. Jensen barely has time to notice the slight limp again before Chad puts a photo album on the counter in front of Jensen. “These are the digital prints of my paintings. The originals are upstairs, in the attic.”

Jensen, remembering what Chris had found out about the painter from the hotel receptionist, opens the album curiously.

He's stunned to find that the paintings are all scenes he's already seen – individual frames in the films of his dreams poured into colors that don't – can’t possibly – do them justice.

Jensen identifies himself in the images - incomplete, ethereal - but unmistakably _him_.

The first two images in the album show Jensen on the inky black beach, looking at the viewer, eyes the only thing alive in the painting. Sand is pouring from his fingertips. As he flips through the pages, he finds himself cast as indistinguishable smudges of dirty white completely engulfed in the middle of green.

He knows it’s the Sanctuary – it’s a feeling, an instinct when he looks at the picture.

There are more.

Jensen's breath quickens as he goes through each page, and his heartbeat becomes too loud in the silence that had fallen over the small group.

More contours of human bodies, shapes that are never completely solid. Faceless silhouettes, shadows, smudges on the canvas.

Five. Six. The Warriors. All insubstantial wraiths.

Except for a picture that contains both him and Padalecki.

The back of someone. _Himself._ Short hair, black clothing. A concrete entity, looking at Padalecki…just head and torso, drawn in points, smears that make a mantle out of his skin. The image from Jensen's nightmare.

Jensen closes the album, tries not to let the thrill of finding concrete pieces of their beliefs laid out in front of him descend into the panic of not knowing exactly what it means.

"So...God?" he asks Chad, hoping the painter will catch on. 

Chad smiles indulgently, shrugging. "People would be exponentially less interested if I told them I keep painting a guy in weird t-shirts."

Wait. What?

“There are a lot more pictures than here…When I first started drawing, well, _you_ , the images were a lot less esoteric. But very clear. You happen to own a t-shirt with the stages of man descending into a guy staring into a computer?”

Point taken. Emotions about it, unclear.

“I knew you'd come. I've been waiting,” Chad says, looking at Jensen. “These,” he gestures towards the art, “There was something more to them, I felt it, the moment I put the brush on the canvas.”

Jensen stays silent, inviting the blonde man to continue.

He glances at Genevieve, who is taking it all in with interest, even though she's probably gone through this already - even today. But her gaze rests on Jensen, studying his reactions closely.

“There was something pouring out of me, something that wasn’t _here, let me draw dead nature and horses_...which I had been doing for years. These were...different, came from a part of me that I didn't know existed.”

“Yeah, that's the consensus,” Jensen nods. “We're all something more than we imagined.”

Chad agrees wordlessly, tilting his head and smiling faintly.

“Yeah, so, that’s why I'm not surprised at finding Jay-Jay and an entire basketball team at my doorstep,” he says, giving Jensen the impression that, unlike the other replies, he's phrasing it carefully.

But Jensen gets stuck on a detail.

_Jay-Jay?_

He has not yet mastered the feat of not tripping over his boss' first name.

The shortened version seems like an alien spaceship floating down a landing strip - casual conversation, absurd details.

But Chad's question breaks him out of the weird tangent quickly.

“I feel like it's your turn now. You were telling us about a Guide?”

“Yes, I met with it. Her. Well, whatever.”

“And?” Genevieve makes her first interjection when Jensen gets bogged down in insignificance.

“She said she's me, basically. Time. Only it – she – I'm calling it an _it_ for now – it is the past, and the future, and I am the present.”

Jensen's surprised that it takes only a few seconds for the people around him to process that statement.

“That makes sense,” Genevieve and Danneel voice in tandem. But only Genevieve continues. Danneel smiles at her. “If it's about _guiding_ the Warriors, you might want to know where to be to figure out how to get there.”

Chad furrows his brows. “That's future. And the past?”

Jensen speaks slowly, trying to put concepts without words into verbal form. “Well, we are not the first Warriors, apparently. Far from it. A Warrior - he, she -,” Jesus fuck, the political corectness is killing Jensen’s coherency,”… _they_ are chosen for a cycle, which I'm guessing stands for a human life. And…supposedly you learn from mistakes and all that.”

“Learn what?”

Good question. If only he'd gotten to ask it of the Guide.

“I don't know,” Jensen answers frankly. “Just like I don't know what the Warriors stand for, really.”

Chad relaxes back into the chair.

“Blind leading the blind,” he huffs.

Oh. The fearless leader comment...that's what it was supposed to mean. But how could Chad know… 

“You said you are Time,” Danneel frowns, getting a headstart on the next point of discussion Jensen wanted to bring up. “Did the Guide reveal our identities, too?”

“Yeah.”

All three look at Jensen, wait for him to continue. Jensen would go for the flowery description, swords and their spellbinding floating capabilities - had he known what any of _that_ , any of their names really encompassed. But, as already established, he still had a task of figuring it out. Deadline - yesterday, if it’s possible. For now, he decides that telling it simply, outright, is his best option.

“Danneel, you _are Truth_. We were right about that,” Jensen begins, looking straight into Danneel's eyes. She receives the news without surprise. “Genevieve...the Guide told me you were _Peace_. And Chad,” Jensen continues, turning slightly, trying to communicate with everyone one-on-one, “Your name was under _Belief._ ”

“Peace?” Genevieve asks, supporting herself with her arms on the table. Her hoodie is drawn up to the elbows, but Jensen can see the Guide had it right with the tattoos. An arrow on one forearm, green leaves and orange lilies on the other. “I'm...look, man. I've listened to you and to Murray's friend because that's what I do, listen to people and their stories. But I think you've got it wrong.”

Jensen sees genuine confusion in her dark eyes. “Why?”

“Because. I'm a journalist, a documentarian who chases interesting stuff where it takes me. That can be untold war stories in regions you've never heard of, pieces of the beer making history…hell, anything and everything. But whichever way you slice it, it’s pretty fucking far from being the next Mahatma Ghandi.”

Before Jensen can find a good argument, Danneel intervenes.

“Jensen's an IT guy. So’s Jared. I'm a lawyer. Chris is a cop. I don't think the two identities have anything in common.”

“Technically, Jay-Jay's a big-shot CEO guy,” Chad takes the words out of Jensen’s mouth.

Genevieve studies all three of them.

“You really believe this stuff,” she finally states, looking undecided as to how to feel about that.

Jensen replies without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Then, carefully.

“Can you?”

Genevieve hesitates before answering.

“I...I'm sure there is something to the myth. All myths are born out of _something_ , and I've traveled enough to know that they carry powerful meanings." She purses her lips. “I'm not stuck on the weird shit. Seeing you come to life from Murray's paintings is enough for me. But I don't know about my involvement in it.”

That's fair enough, leaves Jensen with no room to combat it.

“There's one thing I can say for sure,” Jensen tells the journalist, “And that is that you are involved. Your name was...” _revealed on a fucking sword that evaporated after I touched it,_ “...it was the name connected to _Peace._ The rest of it...I don't know. We’re figuring it out as we go along.”

She doesn't seem content with the explanation – Jensen himself isn't – but she accepts it, saying nothing more.

“Speaking of the rest,” Chad breaks the silence. ”Kane, Jay, the professor? What's their spiel?”

“Strength, Sacrifice, Reason,” Jensen recites in order.

Unexpectedly, Danneel bursts into laughter. It's loud, heartfelt.

“I'm sorry,” she says, almost hiccuping. “But that explains so many things.”

To her. To nobody else in the room, though.

Chad shrugs when Jensen looks at him. Genevieve tries not to smile.

“Uh...speaking of Tahmoh. Why isn't he here?”

“He's not the biggest fan of social gatherings,” Danneel replies, faint lines of laughter that prompt the same feeling in Jensen as the first time they'd met – trust. Warmth and comfort.

Jensen raises an eyebrow. “He's a professor.”

“...not a fan of social gatherings where he isn't the only one talking,” Danneel completes, eyes full of mischief.

And Jensen, despite everything, lets himself be carried by Chad's laughter and the moment of levity.

The discussion starts to slide away from the serious things, and towards topics usually emerging in first meetings. The who, why, how.

Jensen learns that Chad is a war veteran turned artist, a recluse who loves the silence that surrounds his cabin and the taste of cinnamon-flavored hot chocolate. Also, the occasional dash of vodka, straight-up, for the taste that reminds him of the dilluted one drunk on tours.

Genevieve…well, she has an equally interesting background, of which they get only the most recent pieces. She’s a journalist, came here to talk to the owners of the village ale house, a very old, traditional one, for the beer making story she’s writing. Whatever makes one go from war reporting to studying the quality of malted barley, Jensen doesn’t ask. More to the point, her story goes off-track with the decision to seek out the crazy man in the mountains because the description piqued her curiosity - which prompted an extended stay out of a completely different reason than beer: the instant connection between her and the painter

So, yeah. Randomness.

Or destiny.

Depends on the strength of your belief in greather things.

Oscillating in Jensen, presently.

But, even considering that, the evening is relaxing, with the present truly here, anxious thoughts of past and future buried under feeling.

That is, until Padalecki and Chris return from their expedition.

They stop in the kitchen doorway, Padalecki because he’s registering where Jensen's sitting, Chris because he seems incapable of moving. Their long hair is matted to their foreheads, but the long crimson raincoats appear to have kept them otherwise - more-or-less - dry. Beyond the fact that they look like Harry Potter movie extras, they also seem to be in one piece, as in not attacked and mauled by any wolves, bears or unfriendly magical beings.

That's a good thing.

Jensen grins, like the asshole that he is.

“Where the hell…” Chris starts, truly believing that Jensen will take him seriously. “Fucking hell, Jensen – team! We're a team.”

“I didn't know I'd _disappear_ , Chris.”

“But you did!”

Right. Well. What more can he say than, _sorry?_

Wait, did he? Say it?

“I'm good now, Chris,” Jensen appeases. “And I have some news.”

The sergeant continues to stare, incredulous at Jensen’s relaxed response, next to a Padalecki that seems exhausted, but relieved.

“Fine,” Chris concedes, foregoing the tirade he'd usually engage in if they were alone. “Fine. What's the news?”

But Chad intervenes, shaking his head vigorously.

“Nope, nope, nope! You two, boots off, dry off now! You're not defacing my nice clean floors like that.”

Jensen suddenly sees how the quirky painter, with bright blue and red smudges on the sleeves of his henley could be a soldier expecting his orders to be followed.

Chris opens his mouth to protest, but quickly closes it.

QED.

But Padalecki just looks at his old friend with a mix of emotions Jensen can't read.

His eyes slide to catch Jensen's gaze.

The hazel-green melts, turns different, night and day from the expression directed at Chad. For Jensen, he has a look that's…dangerous. Hints of secrets, of pasts that Jensen just now realizes exist, and…unnamed emotions. Raw, overflowing, contradictory.

Jensen's caught. Mesmerized. The exchange pulls him in unwillingly, banishes any other thought. The reaction between them has liquefied, found form in a mosaic of Padalecki's eyes, intense, devastating, but also utterly confusing. 

_We need to talk_ , Jensen thinks.

Entangled in this, in the legend, has to be their story. Jensen needs to tell Padalecki about _Sacrifice,_ about his name in the sand, about the dream where he is dissolving.

Padalecki looks like he wants to say something. Maybe he has the same thought as Jensen.

Instead, he executes Chad's order without another word, steers Chris along with him.

Padalecki has already left the room when Jensen notices the symbol on his wrist pulsating.

It's harder to concentrate on what's being said when Tahmoh, Chris, and Padalecki finally join the crowd in the kitchen and Jensen’s story is re-iterated, beginning to end, with useful commentary courtesy of the professor. Jensen feels like the mug in his hands is worlds away from him, his own voice faint, disembodied and completely overridden by the feel of Padalecki's presence at the other end of the kitchen.

When they finally agree there's nothing else to dissect for the evening and head to the rooms assigned to them, Jensen feels dizzy, tired beyond belief, chest tight with feelings that he pushes down insistently.

“You okay?” Chad asks, showing him to the attic room.

Jensen sidesteps the questions. “Sure. Just a whirlwind.”

“You're telling me?” Chad laughs. “It'll take me a while to get used to the idea that what I’ve been painting has been in your head all along.”

Yeah. It's good, that Chad thinks there's something to get used to.

“So, Jay suggested I give you this room.”

Jensen frowns. “Huh?”

It's a bed, a lamp, pleasant beige colored walls, empty save for various size canvases stacked along three of the walls.

It's spartan.

And reassuring. But how would Padalecki…?

“It's the only one that’s just for one person. Plus, he explained in very few words – from which frankly I understood nothing – that you two can't physically be near each other and I should put you as far apart as possible. So. He's on ground floor with Tahmoh and Sergeant Chris, camping in my living room, and Dannel's bunking with Gen and me, like a good co-ed dorm that we are. Got it?” Chad finishes, not really implying there's another answer than _yes_ to that soliloquy.

Jensen mutters something like an agreement.

“Good. Bathroom closest to you is beneath. Again, narrow door to the front, bathroom, door to the left is the bedroom, _mine_ , do not fucking scare me at 3 AM because you need to piss.”

“Jesus fuck, man, I got it.”

Probably not a polite way to speak to your host. But Chad doesn't seem bothered by it.

“Then good night. Sweet dreams,” he says, heading the narrow flight of wooden stairs, waving a hand with his back turned to Jensen.

Jensen closes the door after him.

The only thing he can do, beside taking off his hoodie and jeans and sliding under the fresh covers, is close his eyes, and let the silence of the windowless room pull him under to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Jensen dreams again.

His mind paints vivid images, unearths thoughts and feelings that were hidden until his encounter with the Guide.

_Time_.

A crossroads. A pleasant cornflower blue sky, a road that Jensen walks, solid glass, transparent under his feet, a bridge crossing the crevice of his darkest thoughts. In the distance the horizon is flat and even, and Jensen can’t tell if it is an endless stretch of water, a horizon of blue, or moon soil. As he walks it starts to vibrate, ripple, to melt and raise like the ocean in the storm.

Jensen keeps walking, uneasiness enveloping him.

Uneasiness explained when he sees the end of the bridge. 

Padalecki is there, tall statue that waits for Jensen patiently, without expression in familiar eyes.

Uneasiness reshapes itself into anxiety.

Jensen's mind is already full of this man, even in the real world, with all the question he brings.

But it helps Jensen's nerves that when he gets close enough, he sees that Padalecki is dressed for a Halloween party.

His hair is pulled back around his ears in intricate braids that wind together at the back of his head. His eyes - no, wait, _really -_ they have a bit of dark concealer under them, enough to make the hazel burn like a fire, taking Jensen's breath away.

Jensen scrutinizes the body in front of him shamelessly.

It's a dream, after all.

And while it's debatable whether he even likes Padalecki - the last few days have involuntarily, grudgingly added weight to the _yes_ column - Jensen has never been able to completely deny the physical attraction the imposing figures elicits.

Padalecki seems bigger than the space he takes.

Back there, where Jensen left the last cracked shards of sanity, in reality, _here -_ always, in Jensen’s mind…now, in a brown leather vest that goes to his knees, Padalecki doesn't even look like a man, he is a _presence_ , immense and overwhelming.

Padalecki’s muscular arms, which have secretly fascinated Jensen since first noticing them emerging from his boss’ rolled up shirtsleeves, are hidden under loose linen that gapes at his wrists, revealing five dark lines circling each wrist like bracelets. Padalecki's left hand rests on a sword – _the fucking sword created by the Guide –_ at his left hip in a gesture of expectation.

What’s Padakecki waiting for? Trick or treat? Jensen? Or something else?

Because Jensen stopped, and doesn't have any intention to move again soon. Estimated time of recovery, of reaching total indifference towards the arm veins and the muscles, and the eyes, absorbing, fiery and ravaging Jensen’s ability to think clearly - ranging from minutes to years

Also - _forever_ is an option Jensen considers.

Fucking Viking fetish that Jensen has. One place it could have avoided interjecting itself – dreams with his boss. It's hard enough for Jensen to figure out the tangled mess of emotions Padalecki evokes, _and_ the meaning of the dreams.

This is not helping. _At all_.

Jensen manages to move again, steps courageously towards the fantasy.

"I'm real," the mirage replies softly to thoughts in Jensen’s head..

But real has a funny definition lately. It's not exactly...definitive.

Jensen doesn’t take it at face value.

"You're not Padalecki."

How could he be? The one he left in the world outside his mind is the suit-clad guy whose office walls are gray and taupe.

"Truthfully, I am."

Jensen stops, significantly closer than he can in the other life.

"You will understand, Jensen. Very soon, you will understand," the man tells him, and it's soothing, assurance in a tone forged in steel. "I'm here to tell you to not change anything. Even when you will learn what comes, when the human instinct tells you that it’s wrong – let it be, or all is lost."

_All is lost._

No doom and gloom, no.

"We have a story, you and I, Time," this version of Padalecki says, smiling.

But it's a different man than Jensen knows. Eyes of war that he'd seen last night for the first time, the fight between emotions burning just like it does in Jensen's insides.

"You have to tell the story, Jensen, let it tell itself like it always was."

And, with that, Padalecki evaporates in an ethereal blue fog.

With a wish that he could hang on to the dream, Jensen falls back into the reality of a bright, sunny morning.

The knock on the door gives him exactly two seconds to leave behind images of Vikings and come back to the reality of the attic room.

A voice on the other side of the door. “You awake?”

Jensen blinks.

Tahmoh?

“Yeah,” Jensen replies after seconds where he debates where to reply or not. “I'm awake. But give me five minutes to get dressed.”

Jesus Christ, where's the fire? Does Tahmoh really want to have the super-secret-and-important conversation this early in the morning?

Jensen grabs his phone off the nightstand while wrestling with a pair of half-pulled jeans.

7:20.

Well. A case could be made either way.

For morning people, it’s late. For Jensen, in the absence of Chris and his torture schedule, it’s early. Fall-asleep-in-your-cereal-bowl early.

Jensen hops back to his suitcase, throws on a random hoodie, still pulling it down towards the hips when he goes to open the door.

“What is it?” he asks brusquely.

Tahmoh just looks at Jensen, barely registering the less than warm greeting. The book with the tree on its cover is in his hands along with his reading glasses. Jensen brilliantly deduces that he needs to power up faster, since this is going to be a serious conversation.

“You seem troubled,” is Tahmoh's opening.

“Nope, just my face in the morning. Come in.”

Jensen gets out of the doorway, makes space for the professor to enter. Tahmoh sits on the sole unruffled corner of the slept-in bed.

Jensen, for lack of any other furniture that can be used as a seat, continues to stand. The off-kilter feeling, the remnants of confusion and agitation from the dream - Jensen turns down the volume on all of them, forces himself to concentrate on what's in front of him.

“I thought we should discuss the Sanctuary,” Tahmoh says, looking at the book in his hands.

“Now?”

The professor frowns. “Yes.”

_That's why I'm here, idiot,_ Jensen reads between the lines.

“No, I meant, last night? Wouldn't that have been a better time?” Jensen clarifies. _When the whole group was together,_ he doesn't add.

“I don't believe so. Remember that short passage I told you about in our meeting in the States?” Tahmoh inquires.

Jensen nods.

The Guide, the Sanctuary, back then, all of a week and so ago, those were far away concepts, that were unlikely to be found. But now...

“I think it is important that you read it now,” Reason tells Jensen, handing him the book.

Jensen hesitates for a second, fear of the unknown wrestling with the drive for explanations. But he takes it, fingers stroking the symbol carved in leather. Jensen opens it at the bookmarked page.

He reads the lines under the small, calligraphic letters that spell out _Sanctuary._

_The Sanctuary is not a place, nor has it ever been in the millennia that the Warriors existed. It is the bond between sons and daughters of Light, the tie that carves in Time each Warrior's mission and role._

_It is created by the unshakeable belief in the truth and permanence of Light, and it is filled with the Peace the Warrior must fight for. Time must first recognize it in its present form, reveal the Warriors' names. Then Time must strengthen it, let the true form of the legend come out, which can be done only with the help of Sacrifice._

Jensen stares at the page, unseeing, thoughts swirling in his mind.

_A bond_.

_Time must recognize it – Time, Belief, Light, names – strengthen – Sacrifice,_ again.

Padalecki echoing inside his skull, sending a wave of unrest through his whole body. Something – it's right there. It's wrong. If he could –

“I thought,” Tahmoh breaks Jensen out of his swirling thoughts, “that, given your recount of yesterday's happenings, the paragraph might be of particular importance.”

Jensen agrees wordlessly, hands trembling slightly as he lays the book on the bed, then slips his hands in his pockets, tries to seem like an ounce of the _fearless leader_ Chad had called him.

“You have told us that the first step is complete...you revealed our identities,” the professor continues, and Jensen wonders whether this is still an interesting theory to follow or Tahmoh is genuinely and voluntarily involved with them now. “It follows that the next part implies the cooperation of Padalecki.”

Tahmoh is stating the obvious. 

“And?” Jensen asks.

“And it might be time for an honest discussion with him,” the professor nods, serious as always, leaving no room for Jensen's instinctual reactions, for the banter he usually engages in. “He is the Warrior deemed Sacrifice, is he not?”

“Yeah.”

Jensen's not particularly happy about that. If it were Chris, the conversation would be much easier.

“Then you should approach him, and determine what these references to _Sacrifice_ mean.”

Jensen huffs. “Did you have an epiphany over the night? Meet with the goddamn Guide? 'Cause I sure don't know the answer to that.”

“The point is not to get to a definitive answer – I'm suggesting you merely discuss the situation with the man. The clues we have regarding his involvement are not particularly encouraging, and I fail to see how bringing the whole thing to the group would cause anything other than agitation.”

Jensen, despite finding Tahmoh's words completely reasonable, and not dissimilar to his own thoughts, digs his feet in like a stubborn kid.

“Why me? You know as much as I do.”

_And you might even be better at understanding it._

“I doubt that,” Tahmoh replies, tilting his head a little. “You two...it's clear that you have a connection deeper than the rest of us.”

That's one way to describe it.

“ _Shit_ ,” is all Jensen can find in himself to say after a few seconds of silence.

He capitulates in a fight he'd lost from the start.

“This is what you wanted to tell me at the hotel?” Jensen asks, curious, searching for Tahmoh's gaze. Then, realizing something, adds, “Wait – did you know who we were then?”

“I had my suspicions,” the professor admits. “But then I simply wanted to warn you.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow. “About what?”

“The dangers of the game you are playing with Jared. It's a complicated matter that you perceive correctly - it does not matter who you are, whoever had you been; the effect on the others involved in this myth is undeniable. The bond is between all. You must be careful to not let your reaction to the man of here and now interfere with the connection between the Warriors.”

Okay, fair enough. But, on the other hand – how can he find out more about the delicate mess between him and Padalecki if he's equipped in football gear and kitchen gloves and running through the china shop?

“I get it, Tahmoh,” Jensen replies, for the first time this morning taking the time to think before he speaks. “I am aware that I have a responsibility, no matter how unwanted. All I can say is… I'll do the best I can.”

The meeting with the Guide and the role of the leader he'd been given in the proceedings had both felt right and instilled a newfound fear in his mind.

What if things went to to shit because of him? Maybe he should have figured it out faster. Even now. Maybe he should talk more, be more sociable, care for the people he's sharing a house with. Maybe he should act differently, _worthy_ of the title that has been thrusted in his hands.

But while Time may be Guardian of the guardians, Jensen is still Jensen.

Tahmoh nods slightly, stands up.

“That is all I ask.”

And he leaves unceremoniously, leaving Jensen to ponder whether that was a threatening remark or simply an acceptance of the only thing that, rationally, can be done.

He chooses the latter.

And, overriding the instinct to get back in bed, hide under the covers until the end of time, and never face anyone again, he quickly tidies up the room to make it un-look like a battlefront, and follows Tahmoh down the stairs.

_It's a new day, a new life..._ verses of the song jump into the chorus of his thoughts, blurring everything else. 

“Hey, Chris.”

Finally, some normalcy.

“Ackles,” the sergeant grunts over the cup of coffee in his hands. “Top of the morning to ya.”

“The others?” Jensen asks, frowning at the sole inhabitant of the kitchen.

He hears voices somewhere close, but that doesn't explain why Chris is isolated here.

“Living room, freaking about Murray and Genevieve's new tats.”

If this morning hadn't start with a Padalecki in a leather vest, and continued with a challenging conversation with Tahmoh, Jensen would probably have dropped the coffeepot. As it is, he just stares at Chris.

“Markings?”

His friend nods. “Yep. Chad's rival Padalecki's, they're so stretched out.”

“And Genevieve?”

“She has some on her shoulders. They actually look pretty cool with the others, the flowers, wouldn't know they weren't there before she got the intentional ones.”

Jensen doesn't really know what to say in response to that development. He takes a seat across from Chris with his own mug clasped in his hands.

“Man, it's getting pretty real,” Chris muses, looking out the kitchen doorway into the large living room. “Even for the prof. Can't deny shit that happens right in front of your eyes.”

“He came to me this morning.”

Chris raises an eyebrow in question.

“To talk about what happened yesterday,” Jensen explains vaguely, caught between wanting to talk to Chris about Padalecki and knowing that it's not fair to discuss the issue with everyone but the man involved.

Jensen wonders when he has acquired the new moral system when it came to Padalecki.

“Pretty trippy, yeah,” Chris nods.

He pauses, waits for Jensen to fill in the blanks.

But Jensen doesn't. He's all talked out. There's some shit he needs to figure out for himself.

“I think I'm gonna talk to Padalecki,” Jensen says, continuing the train of thought in his mind, hoping Chris follows along.

Chris searches his gaze for a moment.

“You be careful, Jensen.”

Why the fuck does everyone keep saying that?

All right, so the two of them have a tendency to go nuclear if they get too close, but Jensen considers that they are capable of being civil as long as they keep their distance.

“I can handle it.”

But Chris shakes his head. “I ain't talking about that. I'm saying there's more to the guy than meets the eye.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yesterday, when we were looking for you, seemed to me like he wasn't just looking for you so he doesn't have to deal with the hassle of hiring another guy.” Chris hesitates to continue, but does, all the while looking straight into Jensen's eyes. “He was pretty worried.”

Jensen laughs.

“He worries about endangered species and water disposal in third world countries, Chris. He's that kind of guy.”

Chris shrugs, leaning back in his chair.

“If you say so.”

Chris doesn't say anything more. It's up to Jensen what to do with the information now.

Well…nothing.

That's what Jensen decides.

He deposits it on one of the back shelves in his mind, ignores it and tries to concentrate on the more important – and plausible – things in front of them.

“So, Truth and Time, huh?” Danneel asks, as he joins her on the couch in the living room, perfect spot for a front row seat to the spectacle Chad, Padalecki and Genevieve are giving. They're studying each others’ markings with interest, various pieces of clothing being lifted, shirts disposed of completely and lines counted, only to realize they've lost the reference point and need to start again.

If they weren't immune to alcohol-induced trips to _become-fascinated-by-a-thing-and-spend-three-hours-on-it_ land, Jensen would say they were drunk.

“I was thinking that we still don't know how the appearance of the marks works,” Danneel continues, staring. “And this isn’t helped by the fact that we're all together now.”

Right.

Chad and Gen met them almost all at once.

And apparently Tahmoh is still unblemished.

“Does it matter?” Jensen asks, not able to take his eyes off the tan skin exposed by the removal of Padalecki's simple white t-shirt. The lines of the marks accentuate the tight curve of his abdomen, while defined hips are marred by black swirls that lose themselves under Padalecki’s low-slung jeans.

They look exactly like in Jensen’s dream.

Danneel breaks him out of the reverie. “Call it spending too much time with Tahmoh, but I want to know the details.”

So does Jensen.

But there's an order to their importance in Jensen's mind that doesn't match Danneel's.

The room, tall and huge, bordered on two sides by floor to ceiling windows is bathed in light. Everything seems brighter – paintings that hang on the walls, pictures that defy the reality Jensen's known until now, dreams that he can't get out of his mind.

Jensen watches, lost, focused on catching glimpses of hazel eyes.

In the afternoon, everyone goes out for a walk in the surroundings to take advantage of the pleasant weather, and Jensen figures it's time to start the conversation with Padalecki.

Open space, plenty of ways to run.

He catches up to his boss, but makes sure to stay far enough to the side to avoid triggering their physical reaction, which means that Padalecki is walking on a rough path while Jensen is pushing through the trees alongside it.

Having no idea how to start, Jensen clears his throat, hopes Padalecki will interpret his presence correctly.

His boss turns towards the sound.

“Jensen,” Padalecki says, eyes wide with surprise.

“Hey.”

Put in front of the task, in front of the real man, Jensen panics for a brief moment. He reconsiders. Maybe this was a bad idea. Why did he want to talk to the man again? Of all the whirling thoughts in his head, Jensen's not sure he'll voice the right ones.

“How are you?” Jensen asks, cringing at the awkward question.

Oh, Jesus fuck, why has the universe chosen these moments to give him awareness of his own fallacies?

But Padalecki smiles tolerantly.

“I'm good,” he says, hands in the pockets of his light jacket, continuing to walk forward, a cue for Jensen to follow along. “You?”

“Fine.”

Padalecki nods while he looks at the ground.

Huh.

His boss is usually the one who can coordinate an entire room of people, who always has the words to guide them on the right track. But now he's silent. Distant, hindered by Jensen's presence.

“I'm stopping,” Padalecki declares after a few moments where the silence eats them alive. The soft wind and the ruffle of tree branches remind Jensen of the chasm between them, the impossibility to communicate in a normal way.

Jensen roots himself to the spot. He lets Padalecki get a few feet ahead of him on the other side of the marked track.

Padalecki turns to face him, carefully composed expression on his face.

“What is it, Jensen?”

Jensen breathes deeply.“I wanted to talk to you,” he replies.

That is all he desires; now, that Padaleckiis standing here...that is all he can think of.

"About?"

"The future. The past."

Great, now Jensen sounds like the fucking Guide.

"Jensen," Padalecki rasps out, crossing his arms and leaning against a tree trunk. "I'm not very good at riddles. Whatever you have to say, you will have to do it clearly."

Jensen watches Padalecki's eyes, the mix of apprehension and warmth.

Jensen simply can't fathom why Padalecki would look at him like that.

Well, at least the last part.

"You are Sacrifice," Jensen says, words clear, voice strong.

"And?" Padalecki asks, impassively. Not with the inherent detachment Tahmoh has. Jensen sees a mask crafted to cover for all the feelings Padalecki keeps under lock.

“I've gathered that for a while now,” Padalecki continues, eyes locked with Jensen.

“I've had dreams about you.”

“Good or bad?” Padalecki asks, raising an eyebrow.

Good when he's wearing leather, bad when he evaporates into fine dust.

“Both. Most often I…I dream you dissolve into sand.”

The corners of Padalecki's mouth twist. “I see myself forced to ask again – and?”

“And, looking over all the clues we have until now, it seems like you have an important role in what's to come. Somehow the two of us – Time and Sacrifice – are supposed to figure out who we are and why we exist, and set the Warriors on course.”

Padalecki, arms still crossed, gaze inflexible, nods.

“There's nothing more that I'd like than that. But,” he says, tilting his head forward a little, “Thinking about it and reading those things again...the _one who gives life to all...turning Darkness into Light..._ glowing markings, burning – that sounds a tad different from the group kumbaya singing we’ve done until now.”

Jensen isn't sure that he'd put it quite like that, but, yeah.

"I have thought about it a lot," Padalecki repeats, unwavering. "I die, right?"

So matter-of-fact. The sole thing Jensen wasn't brave enough to voice out loud.

Kumbaya is right.

With words like _Peace, Light, Belief,_ it's hard to remember there's a darker side to the legend.

"I don't know," Jensen answers sincerely. "But something...happened. _Happens_. There's a story that goes forward with you, but I don't know what it is."

"Sacrifice," Padalecki muses. "Well, it's in the name, I guess I can't complain...I doubt that whatever is in store, it will be candy canes and lollipops."

“And...you're okay with that?”

Jensen wouldn't be. He'd kick and scream, fight until his last breath to change it.

“I...I don't really know,” Padalecki replies, honesty clear in his hesitation. “The only thing I know with certainty is I'm committed to this. I truly believe we can do some good, that this is a real chance to make an impact.”

Strangely enough, words out of a sales pitch sound real in Padalecki's mouth.

Jensen’s fingers are itching with the desire for action, an invisible obstacle he'd encountered evaporated from his path.

Maybe this was not a meeting between Jensen and his boss – it was between a Warrior and his Guide, a soldier and his leader.

Jensen's clumsy attempts to navigate the new role prove to be sufficient for now to go forward in a way that feels right.

Padalecki’s voice breaks Jensen out of his musings.

"Jensen, can I ask you something?"

Jensen frowns. "What?"

"Last wish of a dying man," his boss says, and the asshole is grinning.

"Shut up. Nobody's dying."

"You said –"

"I said I dreamed that you were dissolving into sand. Does that seem like it's an immediate possibility?"

Padalecki raises his hands in defense. "You know, my question was a completely inoffensive one."

Jensen gestures for him to continue, impatient.

"Call me Jared?"

"Huh? Wait. Why?" Jensen asks, narrowing his eyes.

"I do hate that you have to question literally everything I say. But the answer is – because I’d like it."

And that's reason enough for Jensen to break out of the comfortable, distancing _Padalecki_?

“Are we leaving behind office rules?”

Padalecki frowns. “Everyone at the office calls me Jared. Except you.”

Psh. That can't be true.

"Look, it makes me feel more normal. Like we're talking person-to-person, and not...”

Mythical warriors? Employee and superior? Which one?

But Padalecki – goddamn it, _Jared_ does not sound right _–_ doesn't say anything more.

And Jensen isn’t ready to move closer, even symbolically. So he chooses the jerk move.

"You are a lot of things, Padalecki, but normal is the one that you're not."

He tells himself that it’s not disappointment in Padalecki’s eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning starts with Jensen putting all his engineering knowledge to good use trying to re-create yesterday's cup of coffee. Seriously, not even the fanciest coffeemaker at the office has so many buttons and settings, and Jensen's fairly sure one of them will propel the whole thing and the surrounding people into space if he hits it accidentally.

“It's the red thing on the right.”

Jensen identifies Genevieve’s voice. Upon seeing Jensen start and stare at her like she's sprouted antennas and tail, she edges Jensen out of the way.

“Simple? Black, sugar, milk?” she asks from behind a copper red scarf, pulling off a pair of gloves.

Jesus. Jensen knows it's early.

And someone’s been outside for a walk already?

“Only sugar,” he answers mechanically.

The journalist nods, smiles at Jensen patiently.

“It's simple once you get the hang of it,” Genevieve consoles him. She does something with her hands, the machine starts making noise, and she steps back into the hallway.

It's Chris' fault for having coffee ready yesterday.

“Thanks,” Jensen says. Then, switching the subject, “What are you doing up so early?”

6:45 AM.

It's barely light out.

Genevieve, having deposited her scarf on the hall hooks, peeks back in the kitchen doorway, leaning on the side while toeing off her boots.

“Getting firewood. Isn't easy, keeping the temperature in the house at Miami beach levels at all times.”

“How about Chad? Or one of the guys?”

“You do know I'm just getting some pieces – not actually chopping down trees like mountain man Chad. Though,” she grins, “I could do that too, it's not outside my abilities.”

Jensen laughs. Point taken.

“But Chad's having a bad day with the leg, and the rest aren't up.”

“He okay?” Jensen inquires, not really knowing what else to ask.

Genevieve shrugs. “He's been better.”

The silence stretches for a few moments, with Jensen wondering whether it's appropriate to ask about the cause and the extent of Chad’s injury.

He decides not to. He ends up leaning against the counter, right in front of the coffee machine, and focusing on Genevieve. “How are you?”

The journalist sits at the kitchen island, in front of a red cup that was there when Jensen came in. _Sitting_ is a broad term, since she somehow manages to fold her legs under her on the tall, narrow chair.

“Yesterday was a shock,” she says, pulling the sleeves of her white knitted sweater up to her fingers. “It's one thing to believe there are things out there in the world you don't understand, and another one, completely, to experience it on your own skin...literally.”

Yep.

Jensen's a subscriber to _Today's Strange Thing._

“There's still a lot to understand,” he mutters, pensively, trying to be honest, but not harsh. “Still, somehow, despite everything, I think we're on a right track.”

Things are coming together. Slow, scattered, but they are. They have the pieces, they just need the model to assemble them after.

Genevieve raises her head, searching for Jensen's gaze.

“You really believe it?” she questions.

“I do.”

The journalist studies him for a few moments.

“I guess...” Genevieve starts, shaking her head and going back to stare at her mug. “It's a lot about what you get used to. You cover one, two, a dozen pieces on cities leveled to the ground by war, mindless tragedies about people dying in a concert hall because there's no fire escape plan, the undeniable poverty and misery that some people live through, and won't ever get out of... and you wonder – why fight? _What_ to fight? The world has a mechanism to it. Good, bad, really fucking imperfect sometimes, but it goes. Round and round, even with its belly up. And change is hard. _Really hard_ , Jensen. Whatever superpowers these Warriors – _we_ – are supposed to have, it isn't enough. We can maybe fix the blatant stuff – but how do we deal with the things ingrained in our our society, the order of the world – how can seven of us change that?”

“So this is why you're chasing stories about beer,” he declares, at a loss.

Genevieve looks up. “What?”

Jensen grins.

“Oh, fuck you,” she answers eloquently.

Point to Genevieve.

“I get it. Spent all night thinking about what you're saying.”

He hadn’t dreamed last night because he hadn’t slept, had spent the time reading passages from the journal, again and again, and wishing he could just beckon his Guide to show up.

_The Guide only shows itself when fate welcomes it, when Time changes and is ready to be shaped by the teachings of the future and the past._

Which, fuck it.

Jensen's ready. More than.

“You must feel pressure.”

“What?”

“Well, you're...Time. I don't know what that means exactly, but it sounds ominous and like a whole shitload of responsibility.”

“Not to mention being the obsession of some random guy’s artwork,” Jensen jokes, not ready to tackle that particular subject yet.

Genevieve laughs lightly, exaggerating the vowel as she says, “I knooow. Chad was thinking Neo and Braveheart with a dash of Bond and Indiana Jones – and you're like the grown-up version of Harry Potter.”

“Hey, Harry Potter is awesome.”

“He is,” Genevieve agrees. “But it took seven books for the guy to get to the final fight.”

“It's called character evolution.”

“ _Human_ evolution. You're, like...all powerful. Immortal.”

Jensen opens his mouth to protest. Then closes it. Then opens it again.

“Then I have one up on Harry,” is all he finds, because, really. What else is there? “The immortality.”

“Sure you have, Noble-G.”

“Noble – what?”

Jensen briefly admits to himself that he was in no way prepared for this conversation. He should have been, given Genevieve’s profession. She’s proving her experience at asking incisive questions you don't want to answer.

And forming a new habit of catching Jensen off-guard.

“Your t-shirt,” she points to his chest. “Noble gases. _Noble-G!_ ” she finishes, dropping an octave and doing some sort of voice effect meant to sound, Jensen presumes, _gangsta_.

All it sounds is wrong.

Jensen looks down at the t-shirt he put on this morning without thinking. Six stick figures in the front, dressed in mantles and white robes, golden leather capes and crimson red armors – _Argon, Helium, Xenon, Krypton, Neon, Radon –_ noble gases. They wield swords.

Which is why Jensen might concede the point of not living up to James Bond.

“Hey, I got it from Secret Santa at the office,” Jensen shrugs _._

As if that would except him from the nerdiness wearing it supposes.

Genevieve laughs.

She looks so open, an astonishing contrast to the woman he'd met a few nights before, who was closed-off, calculated in her responses, no gesture or word more than the ones necessary.

“Anyway. Really, no idea about what we're gonna do?” she asks, smile still playing at the corners of her lips.

“Maybe?”

“Ballpark it for me, Noble-G. What are we talking about here? Delivering Meal on Wheels to indigent seniors? Saving the whales? Storming into the White House and relieving the occupant of his phone, his Twitter account?”

Jensen holds her gaze. “Um. I'll tell you as soon as I got it.”

She untwists from the impossible position she'd been sitting in through a swift motion and stands up at attention.

“Okay. Well, until then, we're gonna do what we can…which is why I'm taking the others down to the village to get food and everything else we need for a while. You wanna come?”

Jensen thinks for a moment.

“No,” he answers.

An empty house might be what he needs right now.

“Okay. That's actually good. Chad shouldn't be completely alone,” Genevieve says as she disappears from view.

“See you later,” Jensen acknowledges to the empty patch of hallway he sees through the open door of the kitchen.

Jensen spends the next few hours cooped up in his room, waiting for the agitation downstairs to die down. Getting the Warriors ready for a fucking trip to the village takes a ridiculous amount of time. Jensen fervently hopes if they have to tackle something more serious that they’ll be better organized by then. Which makes him think whose job that will be.

His, obviously.

The joy in being leader proves to be endless.

But Jensen decides he can’t deal with worrying about that right now, and concludes, after the tightness in his chest threatens to escalate to a full-blown panic attack, that his phone needs his undivided attention.

When he gets bored of updating all his apps and answering or deleting all the notifications, he spends ten minutes staring at the ceiling, musing about whether his predilection for isolation is interpreted as asshole behavior by the other members of the group.

That leads to thinking about Chad, and his artwork, and Jensen spends another hour going through the various canvasses leaning against the walls. The hairs on his arms stand up as he views moments from his dreams frozen in pigment, sees details captured that had passed too quickly for him to register during the experience. The smallest painting is the size of Tahmoh’s leather book, the largest half the size of the room’s bed. The only constant is that they all affect him much more than seeing the photos of them in Chad’s album had.

He stares for a long time at the one where Padalecki is disintegrating. 

Finally, he returns to thumbing through the notebook from Tahmoh again.

Uselessly, because Jensen knows it by heart.

_Sometimes, I ask myself if it could have been different. But every cycle, it is proven to me that it could not. I remember less and less, and yet, I fall in love with him again._

What's Jensen to understand from that?

The pages after that are completely empty.

Which, after all the activities of the morning, brings Jensen to the conclusion that the only thing he can do is wait.

When it is finally quiet below, Jensen decides that he doesn't have to be a complete hermit to do that. He should stay a little closer to Chad in case he needs something, not hide in his tower room like a Disney princess.

Carrying Tahmoh’s book, Jensen heads downstairs to make himself a cup of tea.

On a streak of determination to read the journal for the millionth time to verify that he hasn't missed something, Jensen begins rereading it. Again. He is careful not to drop crumbs from the banana muffin he swiped from a bag on the counter on the vellum pages.

There's nothing different.

Just stream of consciousness fractured, disparate thoughts that lack context and probably only make sense to the author. The author who is Time, who would be Jensen, except Jensen has no recollection of ever living in the 1500s.

He stops at the last written page, staring at it. Invisible writing? If he holds it up to light, or coats the page with the right chemical, will words appear?

Which is the right chemical? Would the almighty Internet be able to help with that? Where to start?

In the middle of Jensen’s frustration, blue ink begins slowly seeping into the page, elongating from smudge to ordered lines which turn into letters, which turn into whole _words_...all appearing out of thin air, right under Jensen's eyes.

He blinks. Multiple times.

_Hello, again._

Is this a hallucination?

_As much as the sand in your palms was_.

What – who?

“I could take a physical form, if you so wish,” a voice sounds out from the other side of the kitchen island, almost causing Jensen to fall from his chair in startlement.

Before he can answer, another voice, deeper, expresses astonishment.

“What the everloving f – is that _Dumbledore_?”

Padalecki, eyes wide, standing in the doorway, too stunned to take another step into fantasy land.

Jensen doesn't know what should concern him more – the Harry Potter character chilling across from him, or the fact that Padalecki sees it. The Guide. Whatever. Point is, what the fuck.

“I have told you; I take the form of what you need. Right at this moment, you feel the need for someone who knows more of your story than you yourself do.”

Jensen, his own eyes still as wide as saucers, exchanges a brief look with Padalecki. His boss looks uncertain, unsure of whether he should stay or leave.

The Guide answers without being asked.

“Normally, it would not matter if he stayed – as I told you in our first meeting, my knowledge is solely meant to be shared with the Warrior of Time, for he is the only one that should see me. But you two are a special case.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow. “In what way?”

Aside from the obvious. What Jensen's requesting is an _explanation_ for the obvious, actually.

“You are connected,” the Guide – freaking _Dumbledore,_ dressed in a wizard's robe and hat, because why not –unhelpfully replies.

“How?”

That's not Jensen asking, but Padalecki, voice strained, laced with the eagerness to understand.

Dumbledore – Jensen figures he might as well go with it – looks at Jensen. “What did the Warrior tell you?”

“Huh?”

“In your vision.”

Oh. Right. Viking boss.

“That we have a story. And that I shouldn't change it,” Jensen recites.

“And do you wish to?” the apparent wizard in the kitchen asks over half-moon glasses.

Don't change it... _or all is lost._

Yeah, no. Jensen's going with no on this one. But Padalecki doesn't know what Jensen was told, so his questions burst out.

“Why wouldn't we? Wouldn't it help if we knew why we react like we do to each other? How are we supposed to function with this in our way?” he asks, voice climbing a little towards the end, surprising Jensen with the revelation that Padalecki might have fried his brain cells over this as much as Jensen.

“Knowing why you two cannot touch is a story as old as time itself, and would not be understood by the pair that you are now.” Ignoring the fact that both Jensen and Padalecki open their mouth to protest, the Guide adds, “Besides, knowing about it would not help, as you cannot change anything.”

“Ever?” Jensen asks, a small tinge of desperation creeping in.

He can't fathom there not being any solution to their problem. He hadn't banked on it – he'd thought, that, at some point, they would figure it out.

“For now,” Dumbledore nods. “You have to wait until the time is right.”

“Time as in Jensen or time as in… _Time?_ ” Padalecki asks, arms crossed over a gray t-shirt with an inscription on the front.

“You should learn that they are the same, Sacrifice.”

Padalecki stares for a moment – first at the Guide, and then at Jensen.

What Jensen gets from the unsatisfying exchange is that it's better to retreat. Padalecki, too, nods in some semblance of understanding and twists around, leaves.

He understands Jensen can’t focus on the Guide’s message if he stays nearby, turning Jensen’s brain cells into soup.

“So. Uh...someone who knows my story? And that's...a Harry Potter character?”

The simulacrum wizard, holding Jensen's gaze, replies in a steady tone that is devoid of any inflection.

“Your discussion with _Peace_ created the context for it. If that had not happened, maybe my appearance would have been different.”

Oh.

Jensen is not entirely sure how he feels about this.

“We do not have much time. You need to listen and be conscious of the things that come.”

Wait, _how_ –

“Focus on the human definition of time. That will help you now.”

“Right,” he nods, still not understanding.

“Do you prefer we continue like this, or do you wish to complete the journal?”

Jensen furrows his brows. “What?”

“That particular notebook _–_ it is Time,” the fictional character interrupts. “It is written by _Time –_ it holds pieces of it, just like myself, your Guide. And, every cycle, you come to this point where you have to decide.”

Jensen's tired of questions. “Decide what?”

“If you are ready to meet your other parts.”

Jensen _is_ ready. The problem is, he doesn't know for what.

So he falls back on instinct, which tells him to abandon the imitation in front of him and eyes that are cold, colorless, missing the depth and brightness of life.

“Journal. We're doing journal.”

And, just like that, the illusion disappears. No stage smoke, no theatrical whooshing sound.

But Jensen's desire for obvious magic is satisfied almost immediately, when new letters start forming on the blank page.

_It is good, taking matter into your own hands._

“Right,” he says, trying to get his thoughts back in focus and his breath to a normal rhythm. “Last time you showed yourself because I needed to do something. Reveal the names, and create the bond that is the Sanctuary.”

The answer draws itself on the page.

_That is true._

“Now I need to _let the true form of the legend come out_ ,” he cites from Tahmoh's book. “How do I do that?”

_It is not all your doing this time._

“Sacrifice.”

Blue, calligraphic letters form under Jensen's eyes.

_Yes. But before, you must understand the Darkness._

Yeah, and quantum physics, and rocket science, while he's at it.

“Why?” Jensen asks, exhausted because of the runaround.

_So you realize why there is not much time. The Warriors, their true form – it cannot come to be if Sacrifice has been overtaken by Darkness. And he is dangerously close to it._

Jensen struggles to process that. He forages in his mind for the pieces he gathered until now about the subject.

“Darkness...do you mean the markings?” Jensen asks, frowning.

_Yes._

“What about them?”

_They are the measure of a Warrior's life._

Jensen doesn't get to protest that he knew that.

_But you've interpreted it wrong; the markings do not relate to the human side in the Warrior as you thought. They are simply measures of the Darkness residing in one's soul._

Okay, but, hear Jensen out – is that not exactly what they said?

_It is not a seal of the wrongdoings, Time. The markings are the toll the Light takes, burning inside._

This time, it continues without one of Jensen's replies.

_Light cannot exist without Darkness. It loses its meaning. Warriors learn of their Light by touching the Darkness of the world outside. The markings are a symbol of their failed attempts, of the times that the world was stronger, the times where Darkness burnt a little of their Light._

Jensen still doesn't get it. He stares at the ink under his fingertips for a long time.

_Take Belief. It is the simplest to understand. He means faith as much as lucidity. It is an irrational, steadfast conjuring of strength. But there's a darker side to the Warrior...or to the human, which way one wants to consider it. That is the blindness of hopelessness, despair born when nothing solid comes to support one's faith, when the lucidity seems like a bleak painting of the world's workings. Then, the life of the Warrior is drawn out as acrimony, distrust, cynicism, and markings engulf the body as a physical sign._

“And that's...Chad?” Jensen asks, finally feeling like he has a concrete point to start.

But it's not something that he agrees with the Guide about. The easy acceptance Chad offered for their out-there theory screamed of anything else but cynicism.

_You are right. He believed enough to build the Sanctuary. But he has done so since he was a child – and until now, no proof has presented itself to confirm his strangest thoughts. True to his Warrior side, he has believed in something ever since he was little. In his parents, in something more, in his country, in his friends and in his art...but his father died, that “more” has never quite been what he sought, the country he served has left him in the darkness of the aftermath of war. So Darkness has taken its hold, for his Light has burned too much._

Jensen tries to open his mouth to say something.

He feels sick - breath stops somewhere in his chest, captive to the words he's just read. 

“And... _Sacrifice_?”

Jensen can't call him Jared, and Padalecki has lost the effortless quality it once had. They’re somewhere in between now.

_He will tell you his story – or you will find out when you are whole again._

_Whole..._ Jensen plays with the word in his head.

But the journal, his Guide, doesn't wait to paint out another response.

_You have to give meaning to Sacrifice, to take what Time is owed, to catalyze and reunite parts that were separate for too long._

Jensen has the sudden urge to shake the notebook into saying something clearer.

_You do not remember yet. But you will, again. You will remember, and rip another fragment from the infinity that waits._

Jensen stares at the pages in front of him – blank once more, ink disappearing after the seconds it takes Jensen to read the lines.

He could ask, again, he could badger the Guide into more half-assed responses.

But after he takes a few breaths, in a moment of uncharacteristic clarity, Jensen decides not to. The frustration slides away. He listens to the order these things have proved to have.

Jensen washes his empty tea mug. The water touches his fingertips, cold, then slowly getting warmer, and the silence of Jensen's small bubble of time is disturbed by notes of a song. He turns off the tap, turns towards the door to the hallway. He can see the sun finding its way through the windows of the vast living room. It's too bright, unreal to Jensen's eyes – and yet, the vinyl-disc shaped clock on the wall says it’s afternoon already.

The song breaks him out of his thoughts again.

And then Jensen hears a voice that joins the notes played on a guitar.

_Whisper words of wisdom..._

It's Beatles' _Let it be_.

Jensen recognizes it.

He also recognizes the voice.

But he can't bear to hear it. Not right now, not again. There still is ink dancing under his eyes. Jensen storms through the hallway, grabbing a random puffy jacket off the rack. He steps out, and the cold air finally allows his mind work right.

Jensen chooses a direction without thinking. He walks along the narrow, sluggish creek that runs on the small hill at the side of the cabin, twisting in its descent towards the village. His feet head the opposite way, upward, leaving behind the voice..

Jensen stops when he reaches snow.

Well, he doesn't quite _reach_ it – the edge of the forest ends in a vast plateau covered in patches of dry, yellow-ish grass and gravel. Its far end leads into the abrupt outline of a mountainside. Snow mixes with the bedrock, retracting its claws from the plateau under the rays of the sun.

Jensen snaps back to reality.

Lyrics from the Beatles song cease to be the soundtrack to his thoughts.

The silence is sharp. Jensen feels the cold air hit his cheeks, his hands, and it helps ground him.

Jensen takes a few more steps. Then turns, drops to a sitting position unceremoniously, a physical motion to stop after his mind had given the command. He ignores the iciness of the earth and brings his knees up to his chest, clasping his hands over them and breathing raggedly, like he'd just run a marathon. 

That's all Jensen does for minutes.

That, and he watches the thin slice of the village panorama the view allows him.

His thoughts settle.

Jensen stays there almost until the sun runs to meet the horizon, forgetting and remembering Time, feeling, for the first time, like he can embrace its identity as his mind expands, the sea becomes an ocean, and he willfully steps into the sand.

Jensen returns to the cabin as the first opaque shades of mauve and orange color the sky in a gorgeous sunset. He enters the cabin cautiously, leaves the jacket he'd borrowed on the rack. But Genevieve, Danneel, and the guys are nowhere in sight, their shoes and outwear still gone, and there's still music upstairs. This time, Jensen doesn’t recognize the piece, not until the voice mutters the first lyrics. 

He walks up the stairs, follows the music to the hallway on the first floor – large, empty except for a turquoise carpet.

Jensen identifies the door on the right as the one where the sound is coming from.

He knocks.

Chad's voice sounds out.

“Yeah?”

Jensen enters, with no words in his mouth, the only reason he's here being the calling to the voice, instinctual and undeniable.

“Hey,” Jensen says, opening the door to Chad leaning against the headboard of a king-size bed with a book in his hands. On the other side of the room, in the corner, Padalecki stops abruptly from tinkering with the strings of the guitar when Jensen enters.

“Ackles, hey,” Chad says easily.

In his corner, Padalecki raises his head, stares at Jensen questioningly.

“I…” Jensen starts, unsure how to phrase an explanation that is not logical. “The music...I liked it, it's one of my favorite songs.”

The Beatles, that was one of his favorite songs.

Not this one.

Padalecki nods.

“We didn't bother you, right?” he asks. “Chad's guitar was sitting there, and I couldn't resist.”

“He was bored out of his mind,” Chad completes without raising his head from the book in his hands.

“It's okay,” Jensen lies.

It did not bother his meeting with the Guide, which was what Padalecki asked, but it _bothered_ him, a moment that, like all the others involving Padalecki, was too much.

Padalecki smiles, and it's just like in the dream – soft, directed at Jensen, too much meaning under it.

“Stay,” he invites Jensen with a tilt of his head.

Jensen does.

He takes a place leaning against the wall shared with the hallway, across from Padalecki, finding warmth in the gray carpet. Padalecki doesn't wait, slides right back into the previous song.

_The Rolling Stones, Angie_.

Jensen lets himself drift, hover somewhere above, fascinated with the tiniest details.

Like how Padalecki's voice breaks on a note, how Chad doesn't turn the page for a while, how Padalecki's t-shirt reads _Forget lab safety,_ and Jensen can complete the portion hidden under the guitar with _I want superpowers,_ how there is a glint of a metal necklace at Padalecki's collarbone, how there are no paintings in this room, how the music makes Jensen feel like he's immaterial again, a feeling without a body. 

He remembers a few lines of the unorthodox conversation with the Guide.

_The Dark is empty for Sacrifice. It is full of the nothing he thinks of himself, the thoughts of the Warrior that are always for the other ones. The markings tell the story of sacrifices that changed the world already, and sacrifices that did nothing but rob him of his Light._

He watches Padalecki, seconds, minutes, eternities at a time.


	13. Chapter 13

Music over, Jensen exits and starts down the short flight of stairs with no clear goal in mind, still wrapped in the solace he finds in music, its ability to still his mind.

He is only half aware of footsteps behind him.

Jensen ends up in the living room, sitting on the couch, staring at Padalecki's unsure form in the doorway. He makes a gesture with his hand, invites Padalecki, no, _Jared_ to sit across from him, at the other end of the thankfully large sofa.

Padalecki steps carefully, close to the wall, chalking up another point of ridiculousness in their relationship. Slowly, he takes a place on the couch, one leg under him, making his body smaller. His jeans stretch tightly with the movement.

It's not the moment for Jensen to notice such a thing – but he does.

“At least this time I know what we're talking about,” Padalecki states.

Oh, yeah. Pretend wizard appearing into their kitchen – that's a subject that cannot be avoided.

However, there's something more important to Jensen: the unavoidable end to the path of _Sacrifice_ that the Guide had laid out.

“Weird people showing up in the cabin?” Jensen chooses to postpone the serious, apocalyptic stuff.

“That, or the fact that you're wearing what I got you for secret Santa.”

Uh – what?

“No,” Jensen objects out of instinct. “You have a color-coded wardrobe and an aversion to anything that surpasses the brightness of light blue.”

The t-shirt Padalecki is wearing now – the first cool one Jensen has ever seen him wear – the lab safety crack – it had to be a fluke. Jensen thought Padalecki had borrowed it from Chad.

“Actually, I love funny stuff. I have a secret stash of it next to the colored-coded wardrobe.”

“Was this from it?” Jensen asks, pointing towards his own t-shirt.

Padalecki, in a gesture more unfiltered than Jensen's seen him do before, rolls his eyes.

“No. It was new, especially chosen for you.”

Jensen looks down at the caricatures on his t-shirt. “How come you don’t wear them at work?”

“I can't meet clients dressed like that. It's pretty hard to gain any traction when my shirt has a drawing of Pumba on it instead of _Puma_.”

Jensen thinks for a moment.

“Did you try to wear one in a meeting?”

“Not in a long time,” Padalecki laughs.

He leaves a few seconds for Jensen's mind to wander, imagining the situation.

“Anyway. That was a joke...and I really thought you knew that I was your secret Santa. I guess we’re doing the game of what's harder to believe, having Dumbledore over for tea or you wearing something from me.”

Jensen didn't. Know, that is. He talks regularly to approximately three people in the company – Padalecki, Alona from HR, and the guy whose desk is in front of him, but that’s just to ask if he knows why the wi-fi isn't working. And none thought necessary to disclose Christmas gift assignments to Jensen. 

In light of the new information, Jensen re-assesses his stance on the _Noble-G_ t-shirt, as Genevieve had deemed it. 

“It's nice,” Jensen says, painfully aware that it's the second compliment directed at the guy from his mouth in the last few hours.

Padalecki looks at him suspiciously.

“You're thinking of taking it off now, aren't you?”

“No. I'm thinking we're a lame team of superheroes,” he says, tilting his head towards Padalecki's own outfit.

“You're selling us short.”

“Can we talk about the freaking wizard in the kitchen?” Jensen blurts, exasperated by the turn the discussion has taken.

How is it easier to talk about the absurd with Padalecki? How does Jensen feel more awkward when holding a normal conversation?

Padalecki switches gears easily, throwing one last playful look at Jensen. His expression turns serious, and yeah, that's more like the guy Jensen knows.

“So, he was the Guide? As in the one we were talking about back in the States? And that you saw here?”

“Not exactly the same, but, the Guide, yes.”

“Okay,” Padalecki nods, pensive. “I guess my first question would be about our story,” he continues, stumbling a little over the _our_ part, “What he said. About…”

But Padalecki doesn't finish. Jensen thinks he doesn't know how. He barely refrains from saying _welcome to the club._

“I don't know much more about it than you. Just the fact that you're tangled in almost all my visions.”

Padalecki, the one from now, a Jared he doesn't really know, a silhouette...it feels like Jensen can't separate himself from the man.

“You said that yesterday, Jensen...but my question is about what these visions mean.”

Yeah, well, Jensen’s also trying his damndest to figure that out. If he had any concise answers, he would not have engaged in this brainstorming session with enormous potential to go off-track. But, as it is, his – Time's, the Warriors' only chance to meet their destiny is for Jensen to work with Padalecki. They need each other to set things into motion.

“Have you ever pictured yourself as a Viking?”

“What?”

“My last dream…You were standing on a glass bridge in a leather vest with a sword and you told me not to change anything. _Even when you will learn what comes, when the human instinct tells you that it’s wrong, let it be, or all is lost_ _…_ that’s a direct quote, by the way.”

Padalecki stares, tries to jump on this train of thought.

“Fuck,” he says, finally, and Jensen can tell that his words shake Padalecki up.

But he’s been blunt with the guy until now, it isn’t the moment to give him a break.

“In one of my earlier dreams, you dissolve into sand – I told you that – but it’s like the marks on you are both what’s holding you together and making you disintegrate,” Jensen continues, trying to keep his voice even. ”And Dumbledore said about Sacrifice that _his Darkness is Emptiness, that Time must take what it is owed from you...that he must leave his human side behind.”_

“I…I don’t know what…”

Jensen has achieved the unthinkable. He’s reduced Padalecki to wordless.

It doesn’t feel as satisfying as it should.

_Sacrifice – he's the one that believes in the better future born out of a harrowing present and past, and so he shall be the one who molds it for its fellow Warriors. Leaving his human side behind – the will and readiness to serve the purpose selflessly – that's the Light that turns men into Warriors, makes the legend come true, at last._

But _hopeless_ isn’t what Jensen was going for in this conversation. He reaches out to Jared, to the man that has minutes to process what Jensen’s been thinking about for days.

“He said you would tell me your story.”

“I am not very good at talking about myself,” Jared says, an uncomfortable raise of his shoulders accompanying his words. Before Jensen can protest the false start, he adds, “Not because I don't want to. Because I feel like I can never tell it right. Every time I try, it feels like the person across from me understands something else than what is in my head, and with matters that I am also confused about, it is endlessly frustrating.”

Okay, Jensen can empathize with that.

Ever since he was a child, there was this thing inside of him – a sadness, an ever-present worry that he could not explain. His life had been a permanent battle between attempting to understand himself and just powering through, pretending to be normal.

“I always felt like I couldn't explain what was in my head at all,” Jensen tells Jared in a conscious choice to let him in another step. “Chris always asks me if I'm good...but there are only so many ways to explain something that doesn't have an end, or a beginning. It just _is_ , part of you. A spiral that you never know if you should poke or leave alone.”

Unexpectedly, Jared laughs, but it's without mirth.

“I get that,” the CEO nods, “And what you said...I would add there are only so many times you can answer with _no_ before people look at you a certain way. So you go to to the satisfactory answer - _I’m fine._ ”

That's what Jensen thinks, too.

No matter how many times Chris asks, Jensen can't tell him the whole truth. If he did, there would be constant looks of worry on his friend's face, or he would think that Jensen cannot take care of himself. Now, more than ever, he can't give anyone that impression.

Anyone, except Jared, apparently.

Who continues to talk, not looking at Jensen, instead studying the thread patterns the couch tapestry has. It's easier like this, not facing each other.

“You’re not fine.”

Jared shrugs. “If I say it enough...”

Jensen flashes back to walking in on Jared’s uncharacteristically upset reaction to the phone call he’d said was from his mother.

“Your mom, the phone call…”

“Yeah, she’s…difficult…and in the category of things I still have a lot of conflicting feelings about.”

“No talking, then?”

It’s very strange to realize that the thing he had to do to connect to Jared was to break him.

Though, a broken Jared wasn’t what Jensen wanted, really. Just - _him._ The man underneath the shield of ultimate polish. The ordinary, confused human that comes out when Jensen realizes he needs to listen.

Jared chuckles. “I can try.” But then he stares at his knuckles, which are knotted into interlaced fists.

_Patient,_ _Jensen. Be patient. Don’t prod._

The strategy works out.

“She…was, _is_ a good mom. It’s just…she’s so caught up in her own stuff, you know?”

Jensen doesn’t.

But he nods.

“I can’t really talk to her about my life. She and my dad separated when I was in high school. Separated, not divorced. An endless mess of awkward family gatherings, of fights, of questions about their status, and about me taking sides. So, not a time when I could wallow in my own stuff. Anyway…that’s another story.”

It’s not, really.

It’s all a single thread, a continuum, an iteration that hasn’t reached its end yet.

“So…you make it a habit out of not talking? Focusing on others?”

Padalecki, surprisingly, laughs.

“Keeps people from looking too closely at me. But it’s an approach I wouldn’t necessarily recommend. ”

Well, obviously.

Jensen’s reaction should be a telling sign. But, he’s on a streak now, so, instead of a sarcasm-infused reply, he settles on another question.

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t quite work. Not to build anything significant, at least, in terms of relationships.There was a friend, _boyfriend_ …it’s a bad habit to have when the overflow of what you refuse to look to close at materializes in laying in bed for days, lethargic and irritable, then the next week putting your hand through the kitchen cabinets during a fight without ever giving a real explanation to why you’re like that. When he left, he said he couldn’t take the ups and downs, the fact that I kept him at a distance he couldn’t cross.”

Jensen’s lips curve downwards in instinctive disapproval, though he has no right to that stance.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Jared replies, “What can you say to that? He was right. You can't ask someone to do that. To just _understand_.”

Jensen replies without thinking. “According to romance movies, you can.”

There are a few moments of silence.

“You know, the big magic talk,” Jensen feels the need to add. “The speech that fixes everything that's broken in an instant.”

Impulse control - don’t say the first thing that comes to mind. 

How awesome would it be if that was Jensen's superpower?

Jared coughs, an inhale gone wrong, something Jensen tries not to interpret as the response to the excellent point he’s made.

“Sorry,” Jared rasps, “I'm still stumped as to what I should ask first – whether you watch that many romance movies or you think this is one of those magic talks.”

“You're an asshole.”

The corporate chain of command seems less important now.

Jensen's freaking Time, the immortal Warrior.

“Not a magic talk, then,” Jared concludes, grinning when Jensen glares at him. “Though, in theory, there is a magical talk.”

He waits for Jensen to rise to the bait. Which, after a long pause, Jensen does.

“What?”

“Therapy.”

“Have you tried it?”

“How do you think I got to building e-health and especially, mental health apps?”

“An apple fell on your head?”

“Yeah, no. Talking to a professional has been the only thing that has helped me deal with the dark stuff...the ability to put it to use somehow.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow. “You feel any better?”

“After therapy or after this talk?”

Great. Jared's a smartass too.

“Both.”

“After therapy? It helped my self-esteem, hearing that I'm an overachiever. People-pleaser,” Padalecki explains without further prompting. “I work very hard at taking care of other people, apparently. I expect myself to be an emotionless machine, perfectly well-adjusted, and with a load of accomplishments, if it’s possible. The pressure-induced spontaneous combustion is a minor side effect.”

Jensen stares at Jared.

“I don't know why I ever thought you were too serious.”

Jared simply grins in response.

“But, no, seriously,” Jensen presses on.

He opened Pandora's box – the least he can do is stick is head in to take a look. 

“Truth is, yes and no,” Jared answers honestly. Then, meeting Jensen's gaze, “Some stuff’s always there, and the _change your attitude, not the facts_ mantra doesn’t work on them. They’re too deep. But I do feel different.”

Jensen wants to ask what _different_ means, and if they're talking about _now_. He wants to understand if Jared’s drive to be professional, _perfect,_ to be the one that doesn’t _need_ , and all the ways in which that desire backfires is part of the darkness in Jared’s lines. If _Sacrifice_ is a way to live.

Jared's voice shakes Jensen out of his thoughts.

“Beyond some more details,” he says in an even tone, looking straight at Jensen with an unreadable expression Jensen struggles to resolve, “It's a lot about what I just told you..”

“Those are some pretty important details.”

“They are. But they are simply a background. There is something more important now.”

Jensen frowns.

“To go back to the current problem,” Padalecki declares, assurance back in his voice, CEO tone in place. Or, who knows, maybe it’s the Warrior’s. “we need to figure out the next step. The Guide told us _what_ we have to do – but not _how_ to do it. I mean, is it about me saying that I'm ready to go forward? Because I am, whatever that means.”

“Really?” He hadn't pegged Jared for the jump without looking type. “You're ready to roll the dice?”

For a moment Jared’s eyes remind Jensen of the the illusion with troubled eyes. “Sacrifice...what does it make you think of?”

Jensen replies with the first thing that comes into his mind.

“Unpleasant things.”

Didn’t they have this conversation yesterday? And why isn’t it easier for Jensen the second time around?

“Not good, anyway,” Jared agrees. “Not like … _Peace, Strength, Truth…_ but, on the other hand, what you're telling me is that this word...this Warrior is given another meaning, a positive one.”

“So, you're the one who has to fall on his sword because a fucking Harry Potter puppet told me so?”

Anger, that which corroded at Jensen since he'd known Padalecki.

Anger that this Jared he is just coming to know is placidly willing to throw himself away. For the end Jensen’d guessed from the beginning, and refused to accept.

“Isn't that my whole role?” Jared asks.

He is searching for something more in Jensen's gaze.

For what?

Because it's not conviction needed for the decision. Approval? Comfort?

But how can Jensen give it, when the only thing he feels is that it is unfair. A reaction that reverberates through his whole body – his mind fights itself, the deep ocean of Time, tranquil and overwhelming, and the waves, hot and cold, the present, the thoughts that surrender themselves to uncertainty and dread.

Jensen is the one who is not ready.

Jensen collected parts of himself from the journal, completed his identity with fragments of Time. He feels different – but not enough. He’s still just a spectator to his own movie.

“I can't...” Jensen starts, trying to match Jared 's honesty.

But he stops. There's no way to explain the surface when the problem is at the roots. Jensen's sure as hell not starting another conversation on that topic, the cobweb of dual identities and things unknown. The ones in his head are more than sufficient.

He turns the conversation towards something else, leaning into the couch and ignoring the armrest digging into his back. “You know, there are a lot of things I associate with you, but emptiness is not one of it.”

Padalecki, a bit surprised by the course change, takes a moment to react.

“I guess it depends on what you understand by that,” he says. “Definitions, when it comes to the Warriors, seem to be pretty malleable.”

The problem is, _everything_ is malleable right now, like playdough – and they all have dirty fingers and nothing to show for art. 

“I've watched the group these past few days,” Jared continues. “I was trying to connect the _human_ to the meaning of each of our names. And I've noticed some things fit seamlessly, like Chris and _Strength_ , Chad and _Belief_. And some don't, or, rather, aren't what quite you would expect.”

“Which one?”

“Danneel...if you think about truth as cold and harsh. Tahmoh –”

“I think Tahmoh is the very definition of _Reason_ ,” Jensen interrupts.

“As _you_ see it.”

All right, so there may be different ways to see things. “But, still, there have to be common points.”

“Sure,” Jared admits, nodding slightly. He shifts back into the couch, mirrors Jensen's motion and makes himself more comfortable. “Associating Tahmoh with _Reason_ does make sense to me, too – but not in an obvious way, is what I'm saying.”

“Just – _how?_ ”

It seems so clear to Jensen, he cannot even put it into words – he just _knows_.

“I don't know. There's...” Jared stumbles over his thoughts, “I guess the way I see it, we're made for and because of the world, so it's only natural we take some of its form. And regarding the world, I don't think I've ever found something to be clear – black, white...it's all about in between, and there's shades every one of us sees differently.”

“What's that got to do with Tahmoh?”

“I thought Reason was the one to consider all the shades, not just one. _Reason,_ as I get it, is seeing everything, and understanding it as such, with all the gray shades. And, making decisions on that. Sort of like having all the information on a problem before starting to design a solution. But that seems to be Truth for us.”

Right.

Well, it makes sense, to a point.

“I don't agree,” Jensen shakes his head. “ _Reason_ should be _simple_. The thing underneath every unstable emotion or feeling, it’s always there.” He returns to Jared 's earlier depiction. “There are things that happen. Reality. It's concrete, it's...sharp. And color, to follow your metaphor, doesn't really matter.”

“And Emptiness?” Jared retorts. “If there is high, and low, and this inscrutable, immovable line in between, you think that’s _Emptiness_? Where does it fit into that vision?”

Jensen doesn't know.

“I think you and Tahmoh are different,” he says, evenly.

“Most certainly,” Jared replies, not without a small trace of disapproval. “He believes everything to be straightforward.”

“And you?”

“I think…no, I learned, throughout my life, that things are not. There are no band-aids in most cases, and no straight lines.”

To what?

Fuck.

Jared’s words are coming from somewhere in the deeper parts of his convictions – his tone is not level, but passionate, aired out and given light, _alive_ in all its imperfections, the anger that simmers in him, barely visible.

“No one’s saying that,” Jensen appeases. Or tries.

“But that’s exactly what you’re advocating for!” Jared exclaims, heated. “I’m so goddamn tired of the simple solutions, Jensen. Everyone thinks they have it.”

“Your clients?” Jensen asks, raising an eyebrow.

They’ve disembarked the private jet of universally _correct_ thoughts.

Unfortunately, it’s not the destination Jensen had in mind.

“Some,” Jared nods, suddenly remembering that this isn’t who he’s supposed to be. He grimaces. “But not only them.”

Jensen waits for an expansion.

“Look, I'm arguing that events are driven by people, and people are everything but clearly defined. And,” he continues, obviously changing the subject, because the universe hates Jensen. “We're talking about two different things. You're talking about things that happen, and I'm talking about our feelings towards them.”

Jensen ponders that for a moment.

The return to philosophizing is welcome.

At least, now he can throw the frustration at Jared’s inability to fully verbalize a feeling from start to finish into something good, like fighting on abstract points that matter to absolutely no one.

So, yeah. Jared sees this differently. For Jensen, they're six – in theory, seven Warriors meant to keep the planet from imploding. Which, granted, means working with _people_ , but largely refers to certain events happening – at least as Jensen sees it. When their mission is finally revealed, Jensen’s save-the-world postcard is guns, suspense, epic fights. Villains. Jensen does not expect for the instructions to be _become the world's therapist._

“You're...” Jensen starts, not sure how to put into words what he wants to say. “Am I understanding this right – you're saying the force behind people's actions, and, in consequence, for...well, _everything,_ are emotions? The way people react?”

To Jensen, the view seems slightly absurd.

But Jared laughs.

“Sounds like lines in a bad rom-com…or an excerpt from a motivational book, when you say it like that.”

“Yeah. And it's missing the motivational part.”

Jared's shoulders go up in a shrug. “ _We_ are the motivational part.”

See, _empty_ _,_ is not a word Jensen can willfully associate with the guy.

Not if it means _hollow, detached_.

“But I don't see it quite that way, Jensen,” Jared speaks again, his face getting lost in the growing darkness of evening. “I think that things simply _are –_ the ones you say are sharp, the facts – and then we put them into motion. Like I am supposed to do for the next part of the legend.”

“I feel like I don't know you at all,” Jensen says, somewhat out of the blue, even though in his head the train of thought was perfectly coherent.

But he can't quite read Jared 's reaction, since none of them have had the smarts to stand and turn on the light.

“Why?”

Jensen bites his lips, glances away, toward the faint hallway light that managed to claw its way inside the living room doorway.

“You're…”

_Different from me._

_Better._

_What if you’re right?_

“...not who I thought you were.”

Jensen truly thought the pleasant surface was just for show. But staying here these last few days proved that it wasn't. It isn't that Padalecki doesn't have rough edges – it's that, in Jensen's mind, they don't count against him anymore. He has to work at finding fault.

Jared’s presence has gone from unbearable to intense to pleasant. Pleasantness of the adventurer when he starts his journey, loaded with excitement, fear, joy and a ton of questions, but, still, _pleasant._

The silence that stretches between them is loaded with the anticipation of _more,_ an anxiousness that's open, balance on a tightrope that's tested with each sentence that's uttered. They should say so much more. But they can't. Jensen finds himself reluctant to completely let go.

“Jay?” a voice sounds out, close, making Jensen jump.

“Chad,” Jared answers, somewhat strangled, a sign that Jensen wasn't the only one who'd fallen prey to his thoughts. Then, louder, “We're here.”

The uneven sound of footsteps gets stronger. Then a click as Chad hits the switch and floods the room with artificial light.

Jensen blinks the sting out of his eyes.

Padalecki seems to adjust quicker.

“You feeling better?”

Chad grimaces, massaging his left thigh with his knuckles. “Yeah, one of those fucked up days.” He looks suspiciously at both of them, “What are you two kids doing here in the dark?”

“Talking, Chad. People do that,” Jared retorts easily.

The artist's nose crinkles. “Uh-uh.”

They exchange a look.

“You couldn't do that upstairs?” Chad asks, raising an eyebrow. It's debatable whether he's genuinely confused or enjoying making them squirm. Joke is, Jared told the truth, they weren’t doing anything more than talking.

Except this conversation’s aftermath feels more satisfying than just mentally. Chad might have a point.

“We left you to rest,” Jared shrugs, ignoring Chad's narrowed gaze.

It proves to be the right approach to the matter, because Chad drops it.

Partially.

“So, what did you talk about?”

Jensen, despite himself, laughs. A tad on the hysterical side, but mostly amused at the straightforward vision Chad has for life.

“About us,” Jensen says, letting himself be caught in the more relaxed atmosphere Chad's presence implies.

“ _Us-_ us or you?”

This time it's Jared who speaks before Jensen. “Both. Jensen had another visit from the Guide.”

Nope.

Anxiety is back in full force, Chad was just a brief distraction. The subject of their next immediate action makes Jensen want to crawl out of his skin with apprehension. On one hand, he doesn't want to admit that he's genuinely scared for Jared. It's instinctual, irrational, and too strong for Jensen to be willing to reveal it to him or to the group. On the other, he feels the weight of his responsibility, and the matching pressure to rise up to it, to not disappoint.

Jensen isn't even thinking about saving the world. He's thinking of the people around him, from Chris to Genevieve, Chad, Jared...the connection between them has gotten stronger, deeper, and Jensen has come to care about them. It isn't a fantasy anymore, an astonishing magic out of reach, a problem to solve, but palpable. Involving real people. People he doesn’t want to be hurt.

_Real_ , and therefore convoluted, an intricate story enriched with all their doubts and flaws.

Jensen isn't sure what pulls him out of his reverie – Chad's voice or the noise Genevieve, Danneel, Chris, and Tahmoh make when they let themselves in the cabin.

“...so I went to see him,” Danneel's saying, tail end of a discussion she and Chris continue even after Genevieve greets the house loudly. “This is what I thought was right then, and it has not changed.”

Jensen hears Chris’ annoyed huff.

There's more, but it's indistinct, lost in the thud of Tahmoh's boots hitting the floor and the rustle of all the bags being dragged along. Genevieve peeks at them from the hallway, smiling, while putting her jacket on the rack. She slides on her socks into the middle of the living room.

“Can I?” she asks, tilting her head towards the empty space between Jensen and Jared.

Jensen replies without thought. “Sure.”

She drops to the couch, bringing her feet under her and pulling at the sleeves of her sweater, getting comfortable without too much thought.

Chad looks at her questioningly.

“Oh,” Genevieve realizes. “They're arguing about some case they were both part of.”

“The Calvert kid,” Tahmoh clarifies from the doorway, joining them. He searches for a place to sit, ends up turning a recliner chair around instead of going for the empty armchair to the left. “They have differing opinions. Danneel is trying to convince the Sergeant that he should give the offender a chance.”

“And we,” Genevieve adds, gesturing towards her and Tahmoh, “try to change the subject...but they keep coming back to it.”

The professor grimaces.

“We have not lived up to our Warrior namesakes.”

It takes Jensen a moment to realize Tahmoh's joking. The others have the same problem – the laughter that spreads over the still audible bickering between Chris and Danneel comes seconds too late, but it still comes, breaks the ice between them.

And, surprise of all surprises today, it's easy from there. The day balances out earth-shattering revelations with mindless banter, new friends with old ones, anxiety with relaxation.

Tahmoh, corners of his mouth still twisted in a smile, asks about any news, and Jensen tells them a compressed version of the afternoon once Chris and Danneel join the room, carrying snacks to fill the coffee table. They fight briefly over the armchair spot, which Danneel insists goes to Chris. Danneel sits on the floor, cross-legged, leaning against the side of the couch for support, right between Jared and Genevieve.

Jensen knew there was a reason he liked her from the start.

“What? I'm comfortable,” she protests under Chris and Tahmoh's stares.

Jared hands her a throw pillow to prop herself up, pacifying all three of them at once.

“You didn't give _me_ a pillow,” Jensen jokes.

Something flashes in Jared's eyes.

“I would have, except the universe's got a restraining order.”

“Against a pillow?”

Jared shrugs, grinning. “Who knows, the magic field might be repellent.”

“Ooh, that'd be interesting,” Chad jumps in, accentuating the word in ways that Jensen knows mean anything else than that. “We should try. After all, we need to do some voodoo shit to kickstart this Warrior thing.”

“That is not what I said.”

Chad turns to look at him. “I ain't saying summon the gods to invest us, but – how else do you propose we do it? Wait for Jay-Jay here to pray, tango, or spontaneously catch fire?”

Chad's sarcasm has a strange effect, making Chris turn serious.

“What?” he frowns.

“Well, Jay here's _Sacrifice_ , right?” Chad asks, motioning towards the end of the sofa opposite to Jensen.

Jared simply watches Chris and Chad, brows knitted and lips pursed in a faint display of tension.

“Yeah, but nobody said anything about catching fire until now,” Chris points out.

Not here, and not in the context of the present.

Chad, oblivious to Chris' concern, gestures dismissively with his hand. “I was just joking, man. Pointing out that we're all itchin' to get this started.”

Tahmoh clears his throat.

“If the Guide didn't tell you,” he tells Jensen, “it means that it is letting time decide how it will happen.”

“Time,” Jensen repeats, without inflection. “Me.”

But the professor shakes his head. “Yes and no. There's a conscious, willful part of you that is human. And there are layers underneath, that are less deliberate. Think of it like a river – it flows within certain limits and has a direction – but you cannot change its course on power of will alone. That is Time, and it – _you_ will know.”

“This river,” Jensen inquires after a few seconds of stunned silence, “what's it made of?”

“Memories. Thoughts. Visions of the future. Probably Light, maybe something more.”

“What... _how_ do you know this?”

The professor seems surprised by such a question.

“I've researched stories with the same embodiment of Time in human form...surely you didn't think we were unique,” Tahmoh articulates disbelievingly, looking over the group, which is entranced by his words.

Uh – Jensen did. Sue him for thinking they were snowflakes.

“We are but one embodiment of the eternal war,” Tahmoh explains with a tinge of exasperation.

Chris doesn't seem content with the answer, leaning forward with his elbows on the armrests and glaring at the professor.

“Dude. Eternal war?”

“Good and evil.”

“Right. What you're saying, though,” Chad continues Chris’ inquiry, frowning, “is that there are more of us?”

“No.”

“He's saying that there are more legends,” Danneel translates, voice low, almost a whisper, from her place down on the floor.

“And what does it have to do with us?” Chris insists, determined to reach the end of the trail.

“Ultimately, nothing,” she replies. “They don't serve any purpose other than that of helping us understand our own nature.”

“Then,” Chris continues, “Strength. Truth. Did you understand them? Why...us? What are we supposed to do?”

To everyone's surprise, it's Jared who intervenes to answer the question.

“We aren't supposed to _do_...we _are_ ,” he says, holding Chris' gaze, then looking toward Chad. “Just as Jensen embodies Time, we are Strength, and Belief, and Sacrifice – it is not our power, but an identity.”

“M’kay,”Chad picks up the idea, nodding slowly, lips pulled to one side and brows knitted in a pensive frown. “Okay. I follow. So, I get the prof here being _Reason_. I get you being _Sacrifice._ Even Captain Time there.”

Jensen wants to interrupt.

“But,” the veteran continues, “Truth, or Peace...that's a little unclear to me.”

Danneel shakes her head, gets back into the conversation.

“It’s not to me,” she says, raising her head to throw a quick glance at Genevieve. “I have thought about it a lot.”

Genevieve raises her hands defensively. “Hey, if this is a movie, I’m waiting for someone to give me my part.”

Jensen chuckles.

They are different points – but, maybe, that is not a bad thing. How else are they going to make this work, build something together, if there's no one to ask the hard questions?

Answers, Jensen thinks, aren't born out of the certainty of knowledge, but from the right questions.

He read that somewhere. Listened to in a TED Talk.

So, backed by science, he encourages the discussion by keeping silent and keeping track.

“Anyway,” Danneel turns to Chris again, grinning, eyes full of light, “Truth. I think...the way I have fitted it to myself is associating it with the idea of the journey from inward to outward. The authenticity of turning internal feelings into practical actions.”

“And that makes sense for you?” Chris asks, no trace of sarcasm in his tone. Like them all, he's trying to figure out his new life, how he fits into it, as Danneel had said.

“Danni only takes clients she believes in, Sergeant...it is why she is so adamant in the case you two were involved with,” Tahmoh intervenes. “You can see that as a manifestation.”

Jensen thinks about that.

If what Tahmoh said was true...then Jensen doubts they will ever get clear answers. Too many interpretations of the same fact.

“Peace,” Jensen cuts in, voice a bit rough, looking at Genevieve. “There's something about it in the journal. It's short. It says, _Peace is its own purpose. It is the leader that has learned the cost,_ ” Jensen quotes, remembering the lines on the page clearly, like he'd just read them from the notebook.

Genevieve stares at him for a while. Big, dark eyes search Jensen's. It's obvious the wheels have already started turning.

Jensen turns, catching Chris' gaze, confused and unsure. And he thinks he knows the cause. But he doesn't address it. This is a conversation that will be easier to have just between them.

He follows Chad’s lead to breaking off the discussion for food and wine, and talk moves into the mundane and irrelevant. Jared and Genevieve offer stories of their many travels as entertainment.

One includes Genevieve eating ant soup.

_Ants._

Jensen's still shuddering when he climbs up the stairs to his room.

But, as he flings himself into the bed, under the cold covers, he feels...content. It's the first time Jensen's sure about what they are doing.

He thinks back to the Guide, what he'd said about what's to come.

_At the beginning, the Warriors were chosen, with nothing more than a thin strand of hope. The second time has to be their own will to accept the Warrior._

They're human still.

But slowly, by simply inquiring, working to understand, they're advancing toward their purpose.


	14. Chapter 14

A knock on the door pulls Jensen from a dream that made as much sense as a cow parading around in a tutu. As soon as Jensen manages to un-glue his eyelids, the door opens and Chris peeks in.

“’Morning.”

“Chris?” Jensen rasps, raising himself on his elbows. “Something wrong?”

His friend shakes his head. “Nope. We're going running.”

Sure.

Right after Jensen finds a source for endless energy and solves world hunger.

He lets himself fall on the soft pillow again.

“Get up,” Chris goads, pushing the door open and entering the room. He's just about to attack the bed covers when Jensen comes to a sitting position in self-defense.

“Where would we even go?” Jensen mumbles, yawning and rubbing a hand over his face.

The surrounding mountains and uneven terrain are a much more hostile environment than the flat, carefully marked paths of Central Park.

“Around,” is what Chris replies.

That's when Jensen's brain finally comes online.

This is less about physically torturing Jensen and more about Chris wanting to talk, but not knowing how to start. So Jensen moves his ass towards his suitcase, grabbing clothes to brace against the winter vibes outside.

Chris watches from the edge of the bed, drumming his fingers on his left knee, as Jensen chooses a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie..

“How about you go and leave the others a note?” Jensen asks. “You're stressing me out.”

Chris studies him for a second, tries to come back from whatever he was thinking and focus. Then he nods, and leaves without another word.

Jensen stares at the ceiling for a moment, hoodie and pants in hand.

For however long they're staying here, Jensen's drawing up a placard to hang on the door which says _Beware – Jensen is not a fan of mornings._

They leave a snoring Padalecki on the extendable couch and a bleary-eyed Tahmoh just rising in striped blue and red pajamas, which is an image that brightens up Jensen's unforeseen 7 AM stroll.

Because that's all they do – traipse around along the path they'd explored with the group before. Chris jogs for a while, slow enough that a brisk walk from Jensen allows him to stay close, and frankly, it only serves the purpose of warming themselves. Genevieve had the right idea with the multiple layers and gloves yesterday.

It's fucking cold.

Jensen waits not-so-patiently for Chris to get to what's plaguing him, so they can return their frozen asses to the cabin.

“How you feeling?” Chris asks after a while.

Jensen interprets it as a classic Chris opener, translating to _I have something to say, but it'd be weird to lead with it_. Jensen takes matters into his own hands.

“I'm fine,” Jensen waves the question off. “But you – I saw you last night. What's up?”

Chris is rubbing his hands in a gesture meant to warm them, but it's a little too intense not to also be a sign of nervousness.

“It's – the shit that came up, it made me think.”

Which _shit_?

They can't seem to go ten minutes without a philosophical discussion around here, so it could be anything.

“The Calvert stuff,” Chris adds without prompting, “that joke of Chad's, Danneel...all of it. It's just hit me.”

Yeah. That's Chris – strides along for a while on the surface, keeping his balance, and then the ice breaks, and he takes a rude dip into the cold water.

“Bad?” Jensen inquires for lack of any other way to phrase it.

“No. I don't know. Complicated,” Chris grimaces. “I've been trying to figure out how I fit into this, you know? As a Warrior and all that.”

“And?”

“And I guess what Danneel said makes sense...for her. Me? I'm thinking you switched the namecards or something."

Jensen, as unexpected he finds that admission, remains neutral.

"Why?"

Chris shrugs, deliberately crossing in front of Jensen, long, heavy-footed strides that leave Jensen staring at his back.

"Have you heard Gen's stories? She reported from the middle of a freaking war. Murray, he did two tours, survived the inferno over there, only thing that sent him home was a goddamn bomb. Hell, I'd even say Padalecki before me for _Strength."_

"What?" Jensen asks, confused. "Padalecki?! Why?"

Chris throws a glance over his shoulder. He stops brusquely, turning towards Jensen, who almost barrels into him before his body processes the command to halt.

"Do you know how he got where he is now? Did he advertise it to you? Call at 3 AM begging to tell him he was pretty? Anything else that made you feel like he wanted attention, recognition?"

His eyes are narrowed, and his gaze lacks the usual warmth directed at Jensen.

"Chris, what the –"

"I ain't trying to mess in your business, Jensen," Chris interrupts. "And I'm only gonna tell you this once. What you feel towards the guy – the frustration, the insistence with which you try to paint him as this asshole in your mind – that might be because of your own stuff."

Jensen grits his teeth, stopping the first reply that comes to mind. Really, is Chris saying that whatever is between him and Padalecki – that's all his fault?

And then he realizes Chris is a day late and a dollar short - the automatic animosity Jensen has felt toward Padalecki for so long is almost gone.Their talk yesterday had changed a lot.

"Not saying it's your fault, Jen, for fuck's sake. I'm saying – and fuck you for making me say it out loud – that you care for the guy. You wouldn't be the number one protester if thinking about what comes next didn’t affect you so much."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jensen recoils.

His reaction is instantaneous, physical, like ice cold water drenching him from head to toe.

"Tell me, Jensen, why is it that you can't talk about the next phase? About _Sacrifice_?" Chris shoots, getting a bulls-eye.

"How am I not – I've talked and re-talked everything, with everyone, twice, morning, day and night!"

Chris' eyebrows raise, and he puts his hands on his hips, expectant.

"Then why do you change the subject every time we reach the point of actually doing something?"

Jensen doesn't answer.

"I'll tell you why – because you can't bear the thought."

Jensen wants to drop down, curl into the smallest ball possible. Chris' words hit like only the truth does – pointed, salt to an open wound. burning painfully.

But his friend doesn't say anything more than that, despite the fact that Jensen's bracing for it now. Instead, Chris turns, starts walking again.

Just like he knew when to press, Chris knows when to back off, let Jensen gather and reshape his thoughts. They walk in silence for minutes, just the echo of footsteps between them.

What Chris said – it's a continuation to thoughts Jensen didn't dare verbalize. But it's true. Stripped of anger, that's what's left: a bond so strong that the thought of it causes a suffocating tightness in his chest. Chris is right. Jensen's terrified of the future – Jared's, and theirs, all of the Warriors’

The two choices again.

One tells him to think of the bigger picture. And one tells Jensen to think about his human side, about all the emotions involved.

Shit.

"Chris," Jensen calls out, feeling like he can finally speak.

His friend doesn't stop, but slows down, allows Jensen to catch up easily after a few seconds.

"You're right," Jensen admits, not without a conscious effort of will.

Chris continues to stare at the forest ground.

Jensen struggles to put into words what he's feeling. "But what the hell am I supposed to do, Chris?"

There are a few moments of silence.

Jensen expects - _needs_ his friend to drop some wisdom on him right now.

"I have no clue," Chris says, crushing Jensen’s thin-walled bubble of hope . "But – you're Time. You'll figure it out."

Yeah. Everyone's counting on that.

Jensen snorts.

What if he doesn't?

The Guide told him there are pieces of Time missing. What if those are the most important ones?

Jensen leaves the point open, too tired to think about all the things he should be. He picks up a hanging thread of the conversation instead.

"And you're Strength, Chris," Jensen says, effortlessly lacing his tone with conviction. "You shouldn't doubt that."

His friend turns his head.

Jensen presses on. "Remember when we were kids?"

"Are you asking me if I remember our own pity party?"

Jensen rolls his eyes.

Okay, point taken: he shouldn't have phrased it like that.

"When they wanted to take me away, and you wouldn't let them. You were just a kid. If that's not…"

"You overestimate the power of a big mouth, Ackles," Chris interrupts.

"Why? It's not what you imagine for strength? Because it's what I do. Fighting for someone else, when you're scared yourself, no matter how big the battle."

They don't often get deeper. Not for more than seconds, one or two replies at a time. Jensen tries to cover the awkwardness with resolution. Back home, they shared the weird, ugly or plain hurtful shit – but only after they'd dealt with it. When they had it figured out, and it was a story, rather than an outstretched hand.

Chris shakes his head.

"Courage. The word you're looking for is courage, not strength, Jen."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is," Chris starts, sharp edge to his voice, "that courage is momentary. It's in my job description to be brave, to protect those who can't protect themselves. To be calm in the moments when others are not. But strength – that's...balance, man. Shit that I don't have. I go up and down, with the job, with Soph, with Adrienne, with my mom...I feel like I'm stretched too fucking thin all the time, and I'm never doing anything right," he finishes, gesturing angrily with his hands, clenched fists cutting through the air like all the problems Chris enumerated reside there.

It makes sense up to a point. Chris' mom is in specialized care, has been ever since they know each other. When they were kids, happy-go-lucky, boisterous Chris disappeared sometimes, usually when a well-meaning social worker or foster parent said _let’s go make a visit to your mom_.

Sophia...that's an epic love story that met reality, a string of forgetting and remembering the strain,the hours, the danger, the baggage of being a cop – the things Chris doesn't want to admit he brings home with him and the faults that are not really his, but still raise an impenetrable wall between Chris and anyone who tries to get close to him.

But Adrienne. His partner on the beat. The job, itself?

This is the first time Jensen hears about it. He requests an explanation.

"I don't know, man. I don't know. It's harder with Addi. She's – I keep stressing out about her. And now, that I left her back home to deal with a new guy..."

"So, you're stressing out to compensate for the fact that she's the chillest human being on earth?"

"That's part of the deal," Chris huffs. "She's living on the goddamn mandala-yoga-fucking-zen cloud."

"And?"

“She has this crazy idea that no matter what happens, it's meant to be.”

Jensen frowns. “What's wrong with that?”

Chris raises his arms – and his voice – in frustration. “It makes her think that's she's invincible, goes on everything like, _whatever_ _,”_ he finishes, tone climbing an octave, summing up his description in another gesture, hands outstretched in an exasperated shrug. “She doesn’t really jump in front of bullets _deliberately_ – but, Jensen, she isn’t far.”

Jensen refrains from laughing. It would be inappropriate. It would be. But Chris makes it so tempting...

“So, what's the matter with that? You two are different,” Jensen replies. “That's what makes you a great pair.”

But the whole yin-yang thing Jensen's trying to put out there doesn't fly with Chris. He looks at Jensen like he's talking in Chinese. 

"The _matter_ , Jen, is that she's not bulletproof! That's the problem!"

Right.

So she's not a superhero with indestructible armor.

Well, neither of them are. Not in any way that truly matters.

"Chris, what you said to me,” Jensen retorts, voice intentionally even. “I'm gonna turn it on you now."

If Jensen’s behavior can be interpreted as caring for Padalecki, then so can Chris'.

"It ain't like that," Chris protests instantly, accompanying it with a roll of his eyes and an annoyed tone. But, after a moment where he looks like he's trying to gather his thoughts, putting them in a coherent sentence, Chris says, "But I do feel like she's an important part of my life."

Jensen raises an eyebrow, a little taken aback.

“Shit, man. It feels like we're missing a Warrior or something.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Chris replies, looking straight at Jensen. “It's not exactly the same crap that happened with Padalecki, not that intense, but, close to it."

Jensen's mouth drops open in surprise. He hadn't expected that explanation.

"I'm sure, 100%, that she's not one of us," Jensen says, taking comfort in one of the very few things he knows for certain.

Chris just shrugs.

"Who knows...maybe I've gone off the beaten path."

“Didn't you hear? Questioning your sanity is required, says so on the Warriors membership card.”

At some point, everyone added the word _crazy_ to their self-description. Except maybe Tahmoh.

“Fuck you, I didn't get one,” Chris throws back, but laughing.

Jensen smiles himself.

He thinks of the Sigils as they follow the twists and turns of the path, enjoying the solitude and calm the narrow, tree-bordered trail offers. They stop to rest when they reach a small clearing, binging on some protein bars Chris had been smart enough to bring with him.

They stay silent more than they talk.

When they arrive back at the cabin, something feels different, but Jensen doesn't know if it's an illusion of the outside, or inside his own mind.

What's not the same, and immediately recognizable, is the interaction with Padalecki.

If by _interaction_ Jensen means almost bumping into each other when Jensen enters through the front door.

They end up inches – barely a foot between Jared’s back and Jensen’s chest.

And yet, the world doesn't stop spinning. There's a faint thrum in Jensen's ears, a sudden tingling under the skin of his arms and hands, but too little of the feeling of _wrong_ he'd previously experienced.

Jared seems just as stunned as Jensen, stopping in the middle of his sentence to turn around. He's holding three empty mugs on his fingers by their handles, and he's still dressed in what he'd slept in, a simple white t-shirt and dark cotton pants. His hair is ruffled, eyes wide with surprise. He doesn't resemble the put-together businessman Jensen has known until now at all. 

They stare at each other until Chris finds the perfect time to return back to his normal, testy self.

“Are we moving? Like, in the next century?” he inquires from behind Jensen.

It pulls both of them out of whatever trance they had entered. Jared shakes himself off, smiles apologetically, then continues his barefoot walk to the kitchen.

Danneel appears in the living room doorway before Jensen has the chance to say anything else.

“Hey, guys,” she greets him and Chris. She's dressed in workout clothes, a large blouse that could fit two Danneels, with three stripes in magenta hues on each sleeve, and dark yoga pants with a simple brand logo on the ankle. Seems to be casual what-the-fuck-day-it-is.

“We're just picking up where we left off last night,” Danneel continues, making a right towards the stairs. “I'm going to get Gen and Tahmoh, they've exiled themselves upstairs – will you join us?”

Jensen throws a glance at Chris to check with him.

His friend nods.

“We'll make ourselves coffee while you get them,” Jensen confirms in a civil manner.

Danneel smiles, starts to climb up to the first floor.

“ _Exiled themselves..._ ,” Chris mutters while he enters the kitchen, chuckling. “My ass. Bet you Murray sent them.”

“Huh?” Jensen says, following Chris into the room, but focusing his attention on Jared. He's standing in front of the sink, to the far right of the entrance, with his back to Jensen.

“He's right,” Jared explains, a laugh escaping him. “Chad hates politics, and that's exactly what they were discussing.”

“Communist regime in Eastern Europe?” Chris asks flatly, putting a cup of coffee in the designated spot in the machine, and pressing a short sequence of buttons.

Jared turns.

“I think,” he says, wiping his hands with a towel. “I could only follow half of it.”

Chris laughs. “That's the spirit.”

“You heard them too?” Jared asks Chris, putting aside the dishcloth and leaning his back against the counter.

“That day when you stayed behind with Chad, when Gen took us in the village…what do you think was the soundtrack? Three fucking hours, they even ruined the beer tasting at the ale house.”

Jensen, out of the loop on this particular topic of conversation, takes a seat at the kitchen island, where Chris generously places the first cup of coffee front of him.

“It could be worse,” Jared muses.

“Yeah? How?”

Chris doesn't seem to think there's anything more horrifying than extended history lectures.

“Well, Chad could tell you about that time he made a cocktail out of Sprite, expired milk, an old sandwich – “

Jensen almost spits out the sip of liquid he had taken.

“No.”

“Like, blended?” Chris asks at the same time, brows knitted in thought.

Jensen's better question would be _why_.

But neither his unspoken question or Chris' voiced one find their answers, as they are interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Genevieve calls hello cheerily.

Taking it as a cue to join the ranks, Jensen and Chris gather their blessed warm liquid and head into the living room. There's a moment of indecision – Jensen holding Jared 's gaze, both of them trying to gauge their standing. Just how close can they get now?

As usual, Chris solves the problem.

“We'll talk loud,” he declares, rolling his eyes and letting them stare each other to death.

Jared smiles. The skin at the corner of his eyes crinkles, and his expression is tinged with embarrassment, cemented when he drops his head down.

Jensen doesn't want to admit that what Chris said opened the gates to freely let the thoughts regarding Jared become real. 

The Guide was right – there are fragments of himself that Jensen finds along the way. But they aren't the ones that he expects, nor are they revelations. They're just acceptances, slow and unwilling, of things that were already there.

The group talk is more brainstorming session than AA meeting, for which Jensen is grateful, since he's kind of maxed out at the moment on deep, meaningful contributions. The talk with Chris took it out of him.

Ideas fly left and right, everyone pitching in, no matter how outlandish they sound.

There's a suggestion of finding swords. For what, Jensen is not entirely sure, but, perhaps those are necessary to call themselves proper Warriors.

Then there are the tattoos. Something close to what Jensen mentioned seeing on Padalecki when he was a Viking, the five black bands on his wrist. Chad proposes that they tattoo it themselves, arguing that they might jumpstart their abilities in that manner.

It fits with the whole _choose it for themselves_ mantra.

The problem, Danneel points out, is that the Guide had made a point of Jared having the main role in their next installment - and save for some secret dexterity with a tattoo needle on Padalecki’s part, Jensen doesn’t see how that is the solution.

Plus, Jensen thinks – everything about this has been thrust upon them. They were self-standing entities, and yet, there was a force behind them that dictated their actions. How else would have Padalecki met Danneel, if fate had nothing to do with it?

But Jared argues something else.

“Fate – that's a name for the infinite possibilities we can't see,” he says from his place on the bed Chris had been sleeping in, today left out, nobody bothering to clean up more than strictly necessary. Not even Chad. On the contrary, he was the one who arranged the armchairs around the bed and couch, so they'd be in some semblance of a circle.

“It's people, through their actions, that create this fabric of fate, the infinity of combinations and ways to interact between the billions of us.”

_People, driven by emotion_.

“There's no higher power, I believe, not in the sense that it makes us do something, or bestows punishments or blessings – maybe just the right people, doing the right...or _wrong_ actions, creating the opportunities.”

Jared 's voice tapers off.

“Jay,” Chad picks up the thread, “What you're saying is dangerously close to saying there's no God.”

_Belief, faith, hope, air crystallized in something solid._

But Jared shakes his head at Chad's words, coming forward, putting frightening confidence into his tone. 

“I'm saying that God, the higher power – that's in us, in everyone and everything that's _good_ , just as the bad is. I'm not arguing that it doesn't exist – I'm simply telling you that I think it's not about fantasy or magic things. It’s about the things _we_ do, as humans.”

_Sacrifice needs Belief, just as it needs Reason to count for something._

Faint commentary of a Guide wandering around Jensen's mind. _Time,_ regaining its power and knowledge of the past.

“Don't agree,” Chad huffs, falling back into the armchair.

But Tahmoh and Genevieve do.

Danneel's undecided.

Chris look at Jensen like he's the one who has all the answers, another strange thing about today, since, for most of their life, it’s been the other way around.

But Jensen stays silent.

He registers everything said, but lets the Warriors fight it out for themselves, because that is what he understands by _choosing._

In allowing all their feelings – no matter how daunting, how frightening, to come to the surface, meet the truth of who they are, Jensen collects pieces of a mirror that he put together again, the empty and smooth one that resembles the surface of the calm ocean.

He's _Time_ , Jensen realizes.

He does not do – he _is._

Jared was right. On both counts. Time is just a witness to the Warrior's actions, the canvas on which they paint with their diverse colors, the threads of their life weaving together, creating the canvas itself along with the million others, red, green, gold, inky black, too short, too long, love and hatred, despair and joy, good, bad, everything, scattered, continuous, many, and, yet, simply one.

Peace.

That's what Jensen finds.

Apparently, it matters little that Jensen has begun to comprehend the workings of the legend. The mechanism proves not to work like that – the Warriors in his guard are entities that are separate, of their own will and mind.

They're trying to put everything into motion, live up to what they have been appointed as. And they're making progress. But, at the bottom of it, they haven't gotten it yet, they're still searching for answers – each of them in their own way, and as a unit.

Sometimes, Jensen wishes he could share with them all the things he figures out along the way. 

But he can't – that would defeat the purpose.

Chad's voice comes from the kitchen just as Jensen's foot comes to meet the first step of the stairs.

"...we've given him space, like Jay said. But this is not going anywhere."

Then, Genevieve's voice, more cautious.

“Shouldn't you be... _belief_?”

An honest question. But it just proves that there are still things to be learned.

"Oh, shut up,” Jensen hears Chad replying. “I _believe_. It's – dude. He's freaking goddamn Time. Like a Greek god or something, Chronos and all that shit. Shouldn't he be...you know, a tad more almighty?"

Someone huffs with laughter.

Despite the not-so-veiled attack at his capabilities, Jensen feels tempted to join in.

Tahmoh, though, is serious when he answers.

"Time is exactly what we make it to be."

There's silence for a few moments, and Jensen doesn't dare move, although he had gotten what he didn't know he craved – a confirmation for his acceptance.

“So, like...this is our fault?” Chad asks, tiniest hint of surprise in his tone.

“It is not anyone's fault, as much as it is their duty,” Tahmoh obliges with a response. “We have been given assignments in forms that simply require us to... _be_ – to do everything like we have done until now, and trust that time keeps a record – that it guides our paths in the correct direction.”

Jensen, pacified, resumes climbing the stairs.

He’s achieved the sort of mandala-zen state Chris had been talking about his partner Adrienne having, minus the yoga. What he draws from this, beyond the human sting of shame for having disappointed in his position, is the confidence that this is a strong group of Warriors. A group that forms honest ties which will help them in the future.

Chad, marked by the Darkness of his own Warrior, can't see it right now.

But, as hard as it is to accept it, that's why Sacrifice exists. Why Jared’s life has been intertwined with the painter’s. Jensen may not be of the same opinion as Jared – emotion doesn’t drive all – but bonds, or the lack thereof, do. They shape. Building blocks of lives in a row of adjoined houses.

And Jared…maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Charismatic, _good_ to the core, funny, social, smart – those are the qualities needed for the foundation. The time-tested friendship with Chad, the easy, comfortable relationship with Danneel, and even the impression Jared’s left on Chris. _Sacrifice_ is the moment, and Jared’s the man who will course-correct their lives to set them on the Warrior path, because, to them, he matters. They understand something about themselves through him. Chad gets the determination for action towards a better future – the optimism that sometimes leaves the scarred war veteran. If he had to guess, Jensen would say Danneel likes the illusion of simplicity of life Jared’s demeanor offers. And Chris…Jensen doesn’t know yet. But it makes sense.

Even the lack of meaningful interaction with Tahmoh does. Likewise, the short conversations Jared seems to hold with Genevieve, neither being drawn to the other, simply maintaining the civility of their human side.

_Sides._

With them, that’s what it’s about. Jensen figured it out while watching them, thinking about the words in the legend.

Genevieve and Jared, _Peace_ and _Sacrifice_ , they’re two different sides. 

These relationships color edges in Jensen’s mind. Edges that wait to be set alight.


	15. Chapter 15

Jensen lies awake that night.

Not in anxious thought or worry – but because dreams become his reality, impossible, intangible, and yet, playing like a movie right in front of his eyes. 

A hand clasped on Jensen's arm, over his infinity tattoo. A familiar one, large, nails digging in and drawing blood, hand belonging to a wrist with five bands drawn in gold and black ink.

Nothing – room fading to darkness, Jensen, alone with his thoughts.

A golden thread, playing in front of his eyes, but it's hard to grasp whether it can be touched, or it lives just inside of Jensen, of Time, a projection that twists, knots, goes forward and backwards, on the cloudy, dark mist in the background.

Fragments of earlier visions, a kaleidoscope of chaos Jensen's forced to watch.

Blood, dark crimson and liquid – on his fingertips, dripping its way onto the mountains instead of the purity of snow.

Darkness. Markings. Scars.

Light.

A clearing that now looks familiar. The one that he’d seen that night in the subway.

A cage with glass walls, gray and opaque, where memories are buried, memories of Time, fissures spreading like cobwebs along the surface, distorted dreams and hallucinations trickling through the minuscule cracks.

Meanings.

_Sacrifice._

Again.

Until a breath of air is nowhere near enough.

It's still night when Jensen climbs down the stairs, steps into the always illuminated kitchen. His mind is trying to make sense of every detail he’s just experienced.

The house is quiet.

Not even the snoring that greeted him yesterday can be heard, which either means it was a sleepless night for everyone, or –

Jensen shakes himself off, falls back into the now. Cup in his hands, he takes a few steps towards the living room entrance.

He sees Chris and Tahmoh sharing the extended couch this time, Chris in starfish position and Tahmoh vaguely pushing at him with a left foot tangled in the covers. They're sound asleep, hair ruffled and a frown on his friend's features, lax expression on the face of Tahmoh.

Padalecki’s bed is unmade and empty.

An instinct makes Jensen grab a jacket from the rack and step outside.

The air is cold, but fresh and pure, imbued with the quietness of the mountains, a blanket that’s more comfortable than warmth. And, in this particular moment, Jensen likes the darkness. It feels like a protector, a silent, understanding companion to Jensen’s fears, making the terror lose intensity and become a soft hum.

Jensen finds Jared on the bench along the outside wall of the cabin, gaze set on the darkened tree line a few feet in front. The dim, weak porch light is just enough for Jensen to see Jared holds a cigarette in his fingers, smoke drifting gently.

It's hard to say if it's Jensen's simple presence or if it's a sound that he makes that alerts Jared to him standing there.

He turns abruptly, meeting Jensen's gaze straight on.

“Jensen,” Jared mutters, voice rough, shocked.

Jensen moves toward the other side of the door, where an identical bench is settled.

If he were a little bit better at this, he'd ask Padalecki if he minds if Jensen joins him.

As it is, Jensen simply takes his place, carefully depositing the cup with warm liquid beside him on the bench, and hunching into the fluffy jacket he'd borrowed, the perfect protector between him and the cold stone wall.

The benches are uncomfortable, merely two unpolished wooden boards on a support. Except on their sides, where the wood is carved in an intricate pattern forming flowers and their leaves and stalks, a geometric vision that Jensen wonders if it was Chad's.

“You smoke?” Jensen asks, watching Jared’s right hand pressing on the bench, palm settled on the edge and fingers dangling over it with the cigarette.

Flashes of another time, when everything is burnt to ashes.

“Rarely,” Jared answers, voice low. “Does it bother you?”

Jensen shakes his head no, but it’s not an honest answer.

It does.

But it doesn’t seem to matter. Jensen wants to be here, in Jared’s company. 

Maybe this is when the glass will finally crack.

“Couldn't sleep?” Jared asks, breaking the sequence of scattered dream scenes playing in Jensen’s mind.

Jensen doesn't look at him when he answers.

“No.”

And that's all.

A word that is sigil to the quiet.

Jensen gets lost watching the night sky peppered with stars give way to the sunrise. It paints the sky from navy blue to cobalt and azure and then explodes in flames of red-orange when the sun makes his appearance.

And yet, time feels frozen and static.

There is no sound, nothing to remind them both that time passes.

“Not a morning person?” Jared asks, voice cutting through the silence again, and for the shortest moment, the _before_ makes all the sense in the world, here, where Jensen has chosen to only hear that. Jared’s voice. A constant, Time caged in the same sound quality, dispersed in all the words that differ, in the meanings they build in each of their interactions. 

Jensen replies without too much thought, focused on their strange bond, on the myriad of feelings packaged together. 

“Not usually.”

Jensen had hoped that the fact that they can get closer now would point him to a clue. But it doesn't; he has no explanation of how or why it works the way it does. Only questions.

“Why don't you ever say what you're thinking?”

“What?” Padalecki throws out, dumbfounded.

Jensen’s well-intentioned, wants to explain, except, all that comes out in the end is what they’ve talked about. _Feeling._ “It's...frustrating.”

“Frustrating, why?”

_Because, here I am. And yet, it feels like I’m million of miles, milennia away._

_I’m Time, immortal Warrior, all powerful, and yet, I can’t figure out what you’re thinking right now. Even though it’s the thing I want most._

“Because – we're all hitting our heads on walls, trying to figure it out, and you seem to have the answers, but won't share with the crowd.” 

Jared doesn't talk for minutes after Jensen finishes voicing out his accusation, just finishes his cigarette, staring straight ahead, features pinched in thought. As he does, he solidifies the impression Jensen had outlined in the last few days about the man.

But, now, studying Jared's features, the steel in his eyes robbed of the usual light and warmth when he turns slightly, Jensen has a feeling that he already knows the answer to the question he’d asked. 

Things start to make sense; dreams and visions that get stronger. The presence of _Sacrifice_ in almost all. It has reached the point of being almost indiscernible from reality - Padalecki in leather clothes, eyes ablaze, the Jared from now, the names that mix, taste bittersweet on his tongue...so Jensen takes a leap: what else could it mean other than that it's time the two worlds meet?

“You know what to do, don't you?” Jensen asks, certain of the answer.

Jared crushes the butt of the cigarette on the empty plate he'd used as an ashtray, thin clouds of smoke still raising in the crisp air of the morning. He shrugs.

“I've guessed it from the beginning...lately, it has just become more clear.” Jared stops, narrows his eyes a little. “And, besides, the last few nights I have experienced the same sort of dreams I'm guessing you have.”

Um, okay. What the fuck?

Jensen hopes that not _exactly_ the same hallucinations – he might not pull off Viking as well as the six-foot-four muscle man in front of him.

He clears his throat, switching from the stuff that he wants to inquire about to the ones he should in this situation. “What about?”

“You, and us.”

“Padalecki, are you taking revenge for me being vague?”

His boss smirks. “It would be great...but, no. It is more the feeling that I have that they are my instructions, rather than anecdotes to be discussed.”

“It could be both,” Jensen says, reaching for the sleeves of his jacket in a mechanical gesture, pulling at it to cover his wrists.

But Jared shakes his head. “No. We shouldn't change it.”

It _is_ revenge.

The guy is really making Jensen ask. Again.

“Change what?”

“The story – ours. I still think it matters _why_ people do the things they do...and this choice has to be solid, we need to build something out of the truth.”

“You do realize that I understand only half of what you're saying,” Jensen huffs.

Jared turns his whole body on the bench, sitting at the edge of it, facing Jensen. Instinctively, Jensen turns, too – a little to his left, just so Jared doesn't talk to his profile while Jensen stares straight ahead, terrified.

That's what the somewhat sudden move does to Jensen – it makes his hands shake, cold liquid trickling down his chest in a growing anxiety. But this time, neither of them back down. Not for the lack of the _wrong, world's-going-to-implode-in-the-next-five-seconds_ feeling their closeness always brings, but because of the certainty that soon they'll have to face it head on.

“You'll get it,” Padalecki whispers, and he _is_ different, he looks like the man in Jensen's dreams, _Jared_ , open, emotions painted all over his face, ones that Jensen understands. Fear, uncertainty, doubt and more, a deeper layer that has its roots in a past that they only have inexplicable fragments of. “Provided that what I've seen comes to be.”

“Is there a chance it won't?”

This Jared seems to have borrowed some fatalistic tendencies from his doppelganger in Jensen’s dreams.

Jared looks at him, serene and smiling. “It has until now, apparently. We've both done as needed. But then again, you’ve called me an asshole before, so…”

Jensen's eyes widen in feigned surprise.

“Wait, do I have to like you for this to work? That's going to be a problem.”

It's Jensen's feeble attempt at a joke. He'd known, deep down, after all he'd read and talked about with the Guide, that Time – _he_ had a role. But he still doesn't get the specifics.

Jared doesn't laugh. 

He takes Jensen's words at face value.

“It's more than that,” Jared says in a soft, even tone. “And I have to try, no matter what.”

He looks like he's tired of arguing with Jensen, though his words are not accusatory. There's simply a resignation, an _emptiness_ that welcomes any outcome, as long as it manages to fill it.

Jensen's reaction isn't a good one.

Traces of anger bubble up to the surface. “If it doesn't work, it's my fault?”

Jared 's words cut much deeper than Chad's doubt.

Jared sighs. “It's nobody's fault, Jensen. It just means that this time, it wasn't enough.”

How is that not the exact same thing?

Jensen's frustrated, fumbling in the dark. Jared seems to hold clearer fragments of the past, and a vision of the future.

Jensen wonders how that's possible.

If Jared would just give him the answers, the instructions –

_“Set the ship of my soul off on the ocean of eternity…”_

"What's that?" Jensen asks, taken aback.

Jared shrugs, faraway look in his eyes. "I heard it somewhere. In a speech at a funeral, I think."

Fantastic. They’re veering into even more optimistic territory.

"What does it mean?"

The silence starts with Jensen's understanding that he won't get an answer. It ends with the platitude that has lost any force of hope through repetition.

"You'll get it," Jared says, not looking at Jensen.

Jensen huffs. "Or not."

Jared, the Dumbledore hallucination, the journal...they all seem to invest Jensen with powers he doesn't feel he has.

It doesn't help that eternally optimistic, rainbow-shitting Padalecki, deadpans. "Or not." 

The CEO stands, a last look at Jensen that holds too many unspoken truths. He leaves without saying anything more, even though Jensen can see he wants to. He's careful in his maneuver back into the house, just as Jensen slides back on the bench, finally putting a distance between them.

But the distance doesn't erase the glimpse of Jared 's hands trembling slightly, or the feeling that rips Jensen's chest apart, amorphous pain that only found its source now.

Jensen lives the day in pieces, a Warrior given incoherent glimpses of the past and inklings of the future, left to order the chunks of the present on his own accord.

Time intertwines with Jensen’s human side. Some seconds Jensen's floating, detached, indifferent to continuity, experiencing the day as disconnected particles, shouting soundlessly, wishing, _feeling_ , embracing the silence of the secrets that have not been unveiled until now. 

He drifts along the beach from his dreams, the blackness that awaits him in the night, the voice that writes invisible letters in the sand.

_You are close to the beginning,_ it says.

For the first time, Jensen realizes he is alone – that the beach holds no Guides, no voices, no silhouettes of his Warriors. They are all himself, thoughts, dreams, memories, feelings in solid form.

Jensen watches the ocean overtaken by storm.

_But, first, there must be an end._

The vision had said – _all is lost._

And Jensen keeps wondering...how does he know? How does he know if he lets the story unfold correctly?

And what is _all_?

Is it them, or is it the world?

There are different Warriors, each time. New bonds.

Only Jared, among all, the same, in hundreds of iteration.

The only Warrior for which Time is a companion.

But Time is immortal, and _Sacrifice_ is not.

Sitting in his room, on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, it's not Chad's drawings that Jensen sees. It's scenes from the living room, where Jared jokes with Chad, talks with Danneel, watches Tahmoh.

Jensen is here, in his room, and yet he's an invisible shadow to Jared, a witness that absorbs everything Jared feels – a slow untangling of the knots in the threads they followed in this life, emotions that they exchanged, sentiments persistent in an unclear history.

How, exactly this happens – Jensen doesn't know. 

But it gives him hope.

“I'm going for a walk,” Jared declares to a confused Chad.

They're in the kitchen, face to face at the kitchen island. Jared is playing with the label on an empty bottle.

Chad narrows his eyes. “What?”

“I just feel like I need to clear my head.”

It doesn't matter how tight Jensen shuts his eyes – he still sees it.

And it is unbearable, because he understands what Jared's saying more than Chad does.

”...the hell? You people find some hidden treasure around and you ain't telling me?”

Jared laughs, when Jensen knows that is not what there is inside.

It's sadness.

And shapeless fear and anger matching Jensen’s own.

_Sacrifice_ , a willing and unflinching one – but that's the Warrior. The human hangs on to things that will be lost.

Jared, both the real, and the one in Jensen's head prove the truth in the secrets revealed in the soothing light of that morning. He stands up and leaves the kitchen, only a brief look back. A touch of his palm on the doorway, words that Jared doesn't know how to say. 

Danneel bumps into Jared just as he exits.

She retreats, chuckles.

Jared passes her, clasping a hand on her shoulder, squeezing a little.

Small gestures that are normal for Jared, who does them with everyone else except Jensen.

Jensen feels the ghost of a touch on his wrist, memories of dreams.

Just like that, they go.

Jensen moves, not really on his own accord, but pushed by an invisible force that tells him he _should_. He meets Jared in the hallway, short exchange of looks that confirms Jensen's impulse towards the action.

Jared picks up the jacket Jensen only now realizes he's appropriated on a few occasions, including this morning – gray, large, warm.

Jensen grabs his own, mysteriously reappeared. Blue and green, thin, hardly suited to the late autumn weather in the mountainside.

And now Jensen remembers what Jared was wearing this morning. The jacket smells of cigarette smoke. Absurdly, Jensen finds comfort in the realization.

Jared walks alone, in front, leaving Jensen to follow.

The clearing he and Chris had visited the day before is the one he had seen on that short trip on the subway. It's the center – the point where all the light comes from, the moment Time stops, caged into Darkness, breaks and dissolves.

Jensen doesn't know why Jared is familiar with the spot.

How Jared knows to stop, to turn, let the far line of immense trees be his background.

Jensen feels the symbol on his wrist burning. It had done so every time he had dreamed of Padalecki, every time when they had gotten close.

Including this morning, on the porch.

“Jensen,” Jared says on an exhale, out of place, breaking the spell of the moment.

All the amalgam of emotions they've experienced near each other, compressed, but holding the same strength and gaining only in depth.

“Do you know what comes next?”

_Is it death?_

That's the question Jensen understands from the Warrior.

“Yeah,” Jensen answers. “Candy canes and lollipops.”

Jared only stares for a moment.

Then he smiles, shaking his head, and starts to undress, starting with the jacket.

“I think,” Jared says, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “I think the markings are important.”

They are.

“Darkness into Light,” Jensen recites.

Jared nods, looking down as he deposits the clothes on a useless pile to his side. “Yes.”

He's left in a white t-shirt that always looked better than it should have. And yet, he doesn't look... _human_.

Just like in his vision, Jared seems taller, bigger, filling up the space in the clearing with a feeling, amplified by the consciousness of the importance this moment has.

Jensen doesn't know if should fight or accept the side of him that urges to let go and immerse himself in the emotion, to ride on instinct rather than thought.

After a few moments, it doesn't matter.

In front of him stands a Warrior, not a man.

Jensen can't be anything other than the same – Time.

“Are you ready?”

The fear in Padalecki's eyes turns whiskey into fire and green into the foam of the ocean in the storm.

The conviction crystallizes them in a hard look that echoes in Jensen's hidden thoughts, bringing about on the surface a feeling that Time cannot hold.

_Love_.

Instead of speaking, Jared holds out his hands, black lines harsh under the cold light of today's sun.

And Time moves forward, forgets, leaves Jensen to scream in the unknown.

Close...closer, until he can touch and take what it is owed.

The last fragment is the Light.

It starts from the markings, black into gold, and then it stretches, turns a human body into a silhouette, a fading painting and a skeleton, artwork and sharp strokes of the magic that Time has.

There's a hand on Jensen's wrist, right above the symbol, squeezing, an agony transferred, fire that burns, shouts that crack the silence, a desperate attempt to hold on to a resolve.

Endings are supposed to be painful.

Even when the future seems to dissolve, they must let themselves fall into the abyss, into the endless depth of pain that Time asks of its bravest Warriors.

There is no other way.

The infinity gets smaller. Time is relinquished. _Sacrifice_ is made on both parts.

A sacrifice that holds the _Belief_ in the power of the Warriors, the _Strength_ to let go of what matters most for a greater purpose, the _Truth_ of the conviction, the _Reason_ found despite the fear and the _Peace_ they hope for.

Light envelops Jared's markings, then Jared himself, then the space between them.

Bounds cease to exist – Light finds a path in time itself.


	16. Chapter 16

Time is owed his forgotten moments, which he receives in fingertips full of black sand.

The air is cold; the outside doesn't exist anymore.

It is gone for the eternity Jensen holds in his hands.

_The beginning exists just because it has to – in itself, it is nothing, simply darkness that beckons Time to turn around._

_But it doesn't._

_It, Time, chooses to follow the Light._

_After come the Warriors._

_Time molds them to fight the Darkness that lingers closely behind._

_Time itself cannot escape it, the darkness is part of it; it finds a place alongside Light, falling through the cracks of the impossible perfection, condemning the Warriors to human life. But the Darkness does not know it has given Time the only proper weapons – it has given the world the power it needed, for, if time built the world logically, he could not have thought of sacrifice, he would not have gone against the instinct of the Light._

_Instead, the darkness bore the meaning which weakened its strength, turned it into Light._

_At the beginning, Sacrifice is just a man._

It starts at the first moments, the first threads of his identity as Time.

Jensen finally understands.

_The first moment he sees the Warrior is not an important one._

_It is not then when Time is changed, but in all the moments that follow._ _In themselves, they are unbearably small._

_Because that’s what Time is, ultimately._

_A collection of moments given name – seconds, hours, years, lives – and the human stroke of color fills their canvas in bright, colored joy, dull, tar-black despair, sadness, trust, anger, fear and the infinity of combinations that Time itself would have never thought about._

_He, Sacrifice, shares a small loaf of bread with the children playing, dust raising with their dance, the sun a friend that makes a memory out of the present, sepia colors and laughs. When Jensen approaches, Sacrifice stands, renouncing the crouching position he had._

_He looks Time in the eyes._

_“I am Jared,” he says, and Jensen shakes his hand._

The normal Jensen had gotten used to shatters with a loud sound. He becomes _more –_ truly the Warrior and not the human, whole, present along with past, and names turn on their heads, because the before is not just photographs.

It's integral, feeling before Time knew what that was.

_Jensen is a witness, an impartial and uncaring one. Instead of allowing the emergence of significance in his thoughts, which are simply grains of sand, he sees the human in the Warrior at his side._

_The patience with which he treats a wounded man._

_The serenity with which he accepts his role in his small tribe, a healer, a fighter, a hunter and a custodian to every member, whichever of the ones they need. The courage is in the small gestures, in the unthinking way of being, materialized outside himself. He is the embodiment of Sacrifice, undiluted and unmarred._

_But he is also the only one to not demand of Time. The first to sit quietly alongside Jensen, watching the fire burning, the stars, the colors of dawn. He cares for the human fragment of Time, extends endless kindness to a nomad._

_At first, it is about the Sanctuary – the connection between the Warriors and Time. It is not about love._

As the gaps fill in, Jensen finds too little air.

The memories are all-encompassing, suffocating, Jensen slowly coming to the realization of the loss.

_Stronger bonds come after._

_Truth begets Strength._

_Reason renounces a solitary existence._

_Peace finds solace in Belief, who reinforces a Strength not shored by Reason._

_Sacrifice needs them all._

_Time does not know what it means yet – impassiveness has not granted him true understanding. Only now, Jensen opens it up to the human side._

_When he does, affectionate smiles turn into a gentle touch, a squeeze of Jensen's shoulder as Jared passes by. A lingering hold of his hand when Jensen hurts it in a fight, a flash in mosaic-colored eyes._

_The symbol on his wrist glows, continuous Light. But Time is overstepping its duties, with full knowledge of what comes ahead._

_The legend cares and waits for none._

_It has already happened in Jensen's mind._

Jensen isn't sure he wants to watch anymore. However, it is not his choice.

He must relive every moment, the beginning and the end, the most sincere moments of joy and the most profound heartbreak.

_This is a vital moment – black ink turning into gold, a death that lives on._

_Belief, Truth, Reason, Strength – they become what they are meant to be. They are inspired._

_Sacrifice is a symbol –_ _it has never been easy, and he had shared with them that. His will to overcome fear and discouragement did not mean he did not possess flaws – but that he was strong enough to turn a wrong into a right, a thin thread of Light into multiple ones, traversing the cover of Darkness and slipping through the cracks._

_Sacrifice turns men and women into something more: Peace transforms into a Warrior, and the Warrior becomes his purpose._

All of them are as quiet as the first was.

Jared says nothing.

Time takes his toll, as it is his duty.

And the world goes on. The only impact is the personal, immediate one, ripples of a stone thrown in the ocean.

_The Guardian sways from his poise._

_For the briefest moment, he relinquishes control._

_And, such as_ _it_ _was meant to, turns Sacrifice, too, into something more._

_And the story does not end; as it had begun to know joy and belonging, Time begins to know guilt and regret, for it had changed both of them forever._

_What they gained they also lost: a closeness, a touch._

The cycles run their course. As much mountains, deserts and green land. Ancient Egyptians and the Roman Empire, Vikings and Knights of the Round Table, symbols and special humans, pieces that are born where the Realms need them. Some memories pass slowly, some are just scenes with a sole recurring character, but Jensen absorbs the knowledge of all.

Even those he had recorded in his own writing, in fear that he will forget, that Time will not be enough the next cycle.

_The servant is named Adelaide_ _, Jensen thinks as he writes in the journal._ _Reason, maybe_ _. That is what the messenger, the Warrior, had said._ _She lives in the apartments of the princess in the royal court, the third room on the left side_ _, he inscribes, coded, hoping that when he'll read again he'll understand._

_Tomorrow. He'll search for her, he'll bring along Belief, the man she fell in love with, the messenger with the red and gold garments of the knight's guild._

_Jensen closes the notebook with black covers, and turns towards the other corner of the room._

_Jared watches him from an uncomfortable chair, the chore of sewing and patching the King's garments abandoned._

_Jensen smiles._

_“How will your master feel when he sees you have sewn blue into his gold ceremonial robe?”_

_The man across from him blinks, returns to the present from his reverie._

_“It will be the new fashion,” Jared shrugs, casting his gaze down to inspect his work._

_But Jensen's just making a joke._

_Jared looks back up, eyes narrowed. “Oh, you – “_

_Jensen laughs._

_He leans forward, and there's a memory of touch as Jensen’s hands slide down the knee of his pants. Outstretched towards the servant, King’s counsel, Time, in a hierarchy he does not command._

_Jared leaves the clothes and the needles in a careful pile to the side of the chair, and stands, coming closer, as close as they can. Jensen yearns for it, but the joy is undercut by the terrible feeling of what's to come, of Time reuniting its fragments._

_“It will be over soon,” Jared whispers, crouching down beside him, a breath away from Jensen._

_Jensen knows._

_But since that first time, he's given most of future's pieces to Jared. He's left in the dark, with only hope as his companion._

_“I will talk to the King.”_

_Jensen protests uselessly. “Not now. Wait more, until we have gathered all the Warriors. He will not believe you. You are a simple servant like the girl, one that talks about magic in a kingdom where it has been forbidden for a long time.”_

_“Forbidden, but existent – we are living proof of that.”_

_“Not yet, exactly.”_

_Jared smiles playfully. “Soon.”_

_But Time can't be as relaxed, when it has held on to the darkest of moments in what's to come._

_Still, Sacrifice insists, fear finding a nest in the hunger to mean something more than his dreary life. There are the words that meet the air of the small, spartan room, and there are the things left unsaid, the broken belief each of them holds in their fragile hands._

Time remembers moments that are not only his own, but also of the Warriors in his guard. Sacrifice is the catalyst, and they are the keys to the future held in the past.

_A house, lavish but relatively small, furniture, decorations and sounds chosen to fit the inhabitants. Soft Latino jazz playing in the background, a bridge between essence and structure, a blend of hard notes wrapped in softness, and quiet intertwined with intense, harrowing, moaning unbearable, acute touches of the trumpet and guitar._

_She sits with a laptop in the bed, he undresses in the closet, leaving behind a navy-blue jacket she bought._

_“I don't understand how you can defend him,” Reason protests, choosing to look only at the drawer with the watches where he deposits his current one._

_She doesn't raise her gaze from the screen._

_“He's a good guy.”_

_Tahmoh huffs. “But he did the crime.”_

_“And everyone deserves a second chance.”_

_“What everyone deserves is a fair balance – we need punishment just as much as we need reward.”_

_She stays silent._

_It is her own nature she would fight, Truth different from the one her husband had._

_The chasm becomes deeper with each passing thought, bridges crumbling when she feels, and he does not. He outlines the world in either black or white, while Truth finds all the nuances that lie in the gap._

_Truth can only hold itself, a story that starts from the inside, the energy that keeps the Warriors alive and the nature of each one. It is a fact just as it is an action, it is a way to be as it is a way to die. But reality lies in Reason just as much as it does in the intricate pattern of truths each individual has. Dishonesty, flaws, even punishment – they should be accepted as an integral part of the world in its truest form._

_But they shouldn’t come together, the two sides._

_The only thing that comes out of it is a fight._

The scenes are unforgiving – Jensen gets to understand each of the Warriors' markings, every single ounce of extinguished Light.

_She watches as they protect her, men and women who are as selfless as she is unimportant. The camera operator, wearing all his fear on the outside, raises a shaky hand, starts the countdown._

_She steadies herself. Genevieve might be unimportant – but what she has to say is not._

_Three, two, one._

_A message from a corner of the world forgotten, a message of the most basic of human instincts – survival. A plea for help, a knowledge that it won't come. Not until the damage is too much to stomach, until the names become the wind and sand, and the false victory finds a place in hands that don't understand and in broken hearts._

_Flags._

_And a casket she'll help carry, a tombstone that will read Sunder, Lily, tags that Genevieve will wear on her arms._

Sometimes, the cause of the marks is Jensen himself.

_The sadness doesn't have a reason to exist – it is just a burden Jensen carries all the time. He watches the wall, where the dirty, pale green paint is coming apart, from his bed in the new house._

_He falls into a hopelessness he can't fight, into a Darkness that he should not have._

_“No! I'm telling you – if he goes, I go!”_

_Chris._

_The new foster family is good for him. He eats, he goes to school, he does chores, he socializes – they like Chris._

_Not Jensen, who stays all day in bed, staring at an unmoving point on the wall._

_They want to give him back._

_“I'm not staying without him, what don't you understand?!” Chris yells, faint among Jensen's cloudy mind._

_Friendship, brotherhood...strength only one of them has._

It's all vivid, Darkness as much as Light.

_A younger version of this Jared enters the room, which is small and full of furniture. It is a smothering atmosphere that's not entirely the decor's fault. He puts down his backpack near the bed._

_“Hey, honey, how was school today?”_

_The question is right. But her voice is low and broken._ _She's watching TV, covered in a wool blanket, lap full of knitting gear and cheeks marred by tear_ _tracks._

_Jared looks at her, finding no words to reply._

_She knows; it's not a conversation_ _she’d meant to start. It’s a routine. A_ _well-rehearsed play of real life, and they’re waiting for someone to open the curtain._

_Jared does, by asking, “What’s wrong?”_

_The silence lasts for a few moments. Maybe this time…truth is, she tries. But there are things that must be a certain way for Sacrifice to become the man he is now._

_“Jared...God, I’m sorry, I can't do it anymore, I can't, honey...I'm so tired,” she tells the figure at the edge of the bed, the teenager that stares, scared and confused, at his mom._

_“Mom – we've always figured it out, no matter how bad it was. We will this time, too.”_

_His voice is full of conviction._

_“How?” she protests. “He's the same, Jay...years now. I can’t – he comes home when he wants, who knows how many women he has! And when he does come home, he drinks, picks a fight with me –”_

_Jared sighs. “Mom, often, you're the one that goes over to him and starts asking questions you already know the answer to.”_

_“You're taking his side?”_

_Jared recoils. “What?! No! I just…” he inhales deeply, “I just – sometimes I want to not wake up to screaming, that's all,” he finishes in a whisper._

_“You think you have it bad, kid?” she laughs, ugly, kindness forgotten in the abyss of pain that life has caused. “I've been doing this for more than two decades, I've washed him when he pissed himself and begged his boss not to fire him when he showed up drunk – everything he needed, I've done! For what? Twenty years, and this is what I get? An ungrateful kid that takes_ his _side?”_

_“So don't,” Jared shrugs, unimpressed._

_Some feelings lose their strength when they stay too much the same._

_“Don't what?” she asks, confused._

_The teenager answers flatly, making efforts not to be drawn into the intensity of the moment. “Don’t take it anymore. Divorce him. We'll all be better off.”_

_She huffs._

_“You'll see, Jared...life isn't that easy. You can't just make a decision like that.”_

_It's clear that teenage Jared thinks you can. He stands up, clenches his fist, opens his mouth. The problem is not that he doesn't see forward – it's that he can't make his mom see it, no matter how hard he tries._

_But he does try, regardless._

_“I'll go make him dinner,” he says tightly. Then, in a softer tone, he adds, “Don't worry, mom, it's going to be fine.”_

_This is how he hopes he'll make her happy – taking upon himself the burden that crushed her until now._

_But Time knows now – it will bring no other result than a cage that can be seen only from the inside out._

_It's not a one-off._

_Jared tries, for the most part. He takes care to put food on the table for his dad, put him to sleep when he's too drunk, stay with her when she cries, breathe when she says all the things a child shouldn’t hear, her most desperate thoughts, holds her hand when the ceiling becomes the most interesting thing of all._

_And study, focus, be as little of a problem as he can._

_Jared is not a crier, he is not the boy that shuts the world off._

_Jared's the shouter, the anger reverberating, bursting out of him when he can't hold it in anymore, shaking, inside and outside, with the loudness, the pain, the intensity and burden thrust upon him._

_It becomes an identity_ _–_ _child turned into the man who doesn’t know how to say the things that matter, not outright. Who doesn’t know how to see love, because he needs it too much. It’s easier to need nothing._

_A scene from the present comes to mind, a memory of Padalecki, leaning against the window at kndbee,, phone almost crushed into his palms._

_Nothing changes, circumstances stay the same._

_Jared evolves._

_Into Padalecki, into someone who replaces anger with distance._

Immediate, instant, another flash.

_Jared, still the same, still now, this life – the Padalecki he'd grown up to be, or the moment he changed, playing with the label of a beer bottle in a diner booth, face to face with Chad, Belief, the one he needed when he felt like he had no one._

_It's a Friday night and two friends that haven't seen each other in a long time._

_“Would you think I was crazy if I said I wanted to start my own business?” Jared asks._

_He both looks like the present and the kid Jensen just saw, dressed in a ZZ Top t-shirt and jeans_ _, fingers tracing shapes on the table with edge_ _o_ _f a thin metal necklace._

_Chad simply raises an eyebrow. It's a disproportionate reaction to the uncertainty in Padalecki's gestures._

_“You have the idea?”_

_Jared nods._

_“Health-related stuff. I mean, health_ _–_ _to help people like my mom.”_

_“Health as in the cuckoo kind,” Chad clarifies_ _._

_“There's got to be something that can be done...and you know, with these new phones, you can – “_

_But Chad raises his hand, interrupts._

_“No technical details. You know what to do, go for it, my man.” He grins at Jared, and for a moment, even Jensen believes that everything is_ _as_ _simple as the moment he is in now. “Sorry, dude, my brain is already fried from the ordinance specification lecture we got today.”_

_It takes Padalecki a few seconds to process the easy vote of confidence. But then he switches focus, concentrating on Chad._

_“When are you going back?”_

_His friend leans back in the vinyl seats. “Next week.”_

_This tour, and the next one – that's what Jensen knows time has in store for Chad._

Jensen realizes that hope is built, knocked down, moments that are hard to watch pass.

Time is broken. Flawed.

But it is the fissures that make room for Light, just as the dreams taught him.

Jensen searches for an image of the same necklace in the present, the assurance that not all is lost. But he is again drawn to the human side, and Time pulls him back, shows him the last pieces, the ones that go forward, even if they are rooted in the past.

_Danneel leaves her chair at the defense table. She heads towards Chris, who is pulling at the collar of his uniform and hastily wiping the sweat from his forehead._

_“Officer, is it true that the defendant was the only one whose gun was unloaded?”_

_Chris takes a moment to focus on the lawyer. Jensen watches from the front row, immaterial in a configuration of the recent past._

_“That is correct,” Chris rasps._

_“And do you not think that is worth taking into consideration? To show compassion to an unwilling participant?”_

_Calvert, Alex – armed robbery, 25, wrong day, wrong crowd._

_Chris seems to find his voice just as the lawyer on his side rises to his feet, prepares to object._

_“I do believe it wasn't his idea – but he put wrong in front of right. I believe he should learn to own his mistakes.”_

_Danneel grimaces. Softly, subtle, nothing that would outwardly betray the desperation of a last try._

_She returns to the seat._

_The fight is won, the war is lost – Calvert is convicted, but Danneel's efforts result in a reduced sentence, and fervent promises on her part to guide him throughout._

_There's a pull between the Warriors themselves, between Chris and Danneel – and a quieter one, between Warrior and her Charge._

The vital pieces – the glue, the threads, the core and the parts, the ones that are the Warriors' mission, the humans that can carry the Light and spread it around.

_Adrienne, Chris' partner, a child in her arms._

The most improbable of people, the ones that will build the next paths of Light.

_Alona and Aldis, two people that are worlds apart, one at kndbee headquarters, working day and night for the vision Padalecki has – and Aldis, who, unknown to Jensen, finds comfort in their small talk, the only part of his day that is not enveloped in the voices in his head, the rare seconds when Jensen stops to play with his dog._

And Peace, who is the Warriors' true leader, and always was.

Time sees a future that already exists.

_The cavernous hall, though full of people, is so quiet that the click of her heels across the polished floor are heard in the back rows. As she reaches the podium and is handed the gold medallion, the hall erupts in applause._

_“It is my honor to present the Nobel Peace prize in Journalism to a woman who has covered wars in Afghanistan, Syria, Iran, and Iraq; exposed corruption in the governments of both Third World countries and modern democracies; shone a light on the wretched conditions suffered by too many people in places where poverty and despair are accepted as unchangeable; and most recently, documented the inhumane treatment accorded to those fleeing the destruction of their homelands who seek only a better life, a safer place, for themselves and their families._

_Ms. Genevieve Cortese!”_

_Genevieve waits until there is quiet again._ _She rests her palms on the edges of the simple wooden stand. She doesn’t cover the bands on her wrist. Instead, she looks at the audience courageously, talks, tells her story, proves the power that lies in herself, immense, reaching farther than any one of them could have imagined._

_“_ _Thank you,” she addresses the presenter. Then, “I’m going to tell you how I got here. Bear with me, please. It’s not the most linear or uncomplicated of stories, but I promise it’s worth it.” She smiles. The audience chuckles. She starts. “_ _I realized somewhere at 13,14 years old I wasn't ...that I liked different things that my girlfriends. Not the makeup, or getting dressed up – I still loved that – but I much preferred that other girls looked at me, left things in my locker, or slipped me notes in class. That was what skyrocketed my heartbeat. But, as you can imagine, there was little tolerance for that in a small school in a small town in Texas. So I struggled, I flopped up and about, talked with my parents, researched activist groups, LGBT clubs, meetings – anything that could make me understand and accept who I was.”_

_She takes a breath._

_“Trying to come to terms with who I was lasted through high school_ _._ _During my years in college I became more at peace with myself, and therefore my mind opened - made space - for other things, even more important ones. It opened to an exploration of the intricate pattern that social, economic, and political factors create in the world, and the maps you can draw around that._

_“_ _But I didn’t know how to capitalize on this fascination - how, where to go from there. How was I supposed to continue my study of_ _human issues_ _, how was I supposed to affect change in any way? For finding my direction,_ _I really have to thank the editor of the Chicago Tribune who gave me my first meaty assignment, though he didn’t know it at the time. He sent me to Europe to observe educational systems in different countries. Except I never ended up doing that – it turned into a piece about the mentality of people in the post-communist era, the society built after the end of the regimes._

_“I discovered corruption, self-centered and self-righteous propaganda, manipulations, bullet holes still visible in apartment blocks, towers built on shaky foundations, scared people, revolts, unhappiness, hopelessness in the idea of significant change, and resignation with everything how it was, because it was slightly better than the past.”_

_She stops to regain control of her voice._

_“And I saw the world as I understood it – wasn't just imperfect, flawed. At that moment, I saw it as unsalvageable, full of darkness and wrong. More than that, I think, was the fact that I realized I was just one person facing it and I had very little means to fight it, at all._

_“_ _I fell prey to hopelessness. Peace didn’t exist, we would never be able to achieve it - that’s what I thought. Which is not a phrase I should say when accepting my Nobel Peace Prize.”_

_The audience laughs - she’s won them over, right from the start. “It was a string of unexpected events that changed my mind. A number of people that came into my life. Then...it came to me that I do have a weapon with which to fight the wrongs of the world. That there are many people like me; with the same vision and with the same desperation to change something. That I am only one of many unsung heroes who use their words and a pen to open eyes, open hearts, and bring justice to the world._

_“I accept this award for all of them. All of us who shine a light in the darkness.”_

Finally, Jensen returns to the moment he'd left in the present, the scene of the most vivid dreams.

And he understands – this is the Padalecki, _Jared,_ the name that carves his own marks in Time.

_The fire burns in the night, smoke rising up to the cloudy, starless sky. It's silent, but it is not the silence that breeds calm. It is the one before the dawn of war._

_Jensen hears Jared's breath beside him, the only steady rhythm to anchor their fright. He doesn't look at him, instead focuses on the fingers covered in black ink, the marks extending upward on skin until lost under thin cotton._

_“Are you afraid?”_

_Jared leans forward, and claws of the fire reflect on a simple metallic necklace._

_“No,” he answers without honesty. Truth is asleep, Strength is watching them from the edges of the mind. “Because I will see you again.”_

_“Valhalla is not what you imagine it to be,” the Time in Jensen says, wariness playing with his features, somewhere between desperation and unspeakable love._

_Jared takes a long while until he speaks again._

_“It is what we need.”_

_In this moment, Jensen wants to hold his hand, stroke the chestnut colored hair shining in the dim light, always braided at the sides to keep it out of Jared's eyes._

_But it is not possible._

_And he knows it will only get harder from now – Time will forget, will become more human while Jared becomes less, always separate, always two parts that the world needs for its rest until the end of Time._

_Jared will always die, because his meaning is not in life, but in what he gives, and the most precious gift he can give is his life. He is the one who stays behind so his brothers and sisters can accomplish their purpose. And yet, he does not die, not really – Time makes him a legend, immortal. As his power is that of invincible spirit, it is fitting that a piece of time resides in its vessel._

The course of life, of _Time_ changes seamlessly, pebble in the water, ripple in ocean, curiosity turned into truth, Jensen being dragged from the edge into a free fall in the chasm full of memories.

It was there all along. In different forms, their story.

The infinite is fabricated in small moments, and small moments are guided by the infinite that finds its place in them. The nothing catches shape into the feeling that crosses across Time, the necessary one.

Love.


	17. Chapter 17

Jensen finds himself flung back into the forest clearing where he'd left the present.

He is alone, blinking his eyes open to find that Time has passed without his knowledge – from noon to nightfall, shades of violet instead of blue. The silence echoes, scratching at the fragile composure in which Jensen holds all that he had discovered.

The Sigil on his wrist glistens, infinity met with pure Light. Time is whole again; it will not darken any more, not in this life. Sacrifice has given the last piece that was missing. 

The voices break the moment like glass – fragile, sole protection between Jensen's quiet despair and the world outside. It cracks, fissures spreading in the rhythm of footsteps, and then – it breaks.

“Jensen! Jay?!”

Chad's voice. And the same names, shouted by Danneel, farther away.

Jensen sees Chad first, coming behind the line of trees. He's limping, but his gaze is sharp, scanning the area carefully. It takes seconds until his attention focuses in the right direction.

Chad stops, hits an invisible wall before he reaches Jensen.

“Jensen,” Danneel breathes, catching up to Chad, making her way to his side.

An expression of relief overtakes her features. She's honest in the emotions she experiences, unlike Chad, whose steel gaze pins Jensen down right where he'd landed back from the visions. 

“Where's Jay?” he demands, blue eyes boring into Jensen's.

The problem is, the painter already knows.

Nonetheless, Jensen forces himself to put it into words.

“He's...gone.”

It comes out as a whisper, voice cracking when the reality of it hits him.

Chad stares at him for a long time. Motionless, pain hardening the gaze that he fixes on Jensen, who becomes an equally immobile spot.

Chad finally understands.

The last conversation he had with Jared, and his simple goodbye.

Chad turns, starting back on the trail they'd come on, leaving without another word.

Danneel searches for Jensen’s gaze with tears in her eyes.

Then, after a few moments, she follows Chad. 

If it was just himself, Jensen would stay here – pick a spot and stare at the sky for the endless rest of his life. But he isn't.

It was an end for a single Warrior. For the rest, it is a beginning.

They enter the cabin in a silence that describes the entire journey back, full of accusations that are never voiced. They find Tahmoh sitting on the living room sofa, jumping up when the door slams behind them. He comes to meet them in the hallway, searching their expressions for an explanation.

“Chris? Genevieve?” Jensen asks, ignoring Tahmoh's need, ignoring Chad, who climbs the stairs in ten seconds flat, despite the limp, and isolates himself in his room, slamming the door.

Right now, Jensen's more pressing concern is that two other Warriors are nowhere in sight.

He could not bear it if, they, too –

“The other search party. We let them know we found you,” Danneel rasps, heading to the kitchen without another word.

“I – we couldn't have been gone that long,” Jensen says on an exhale, demanding a confirmation from Tahmoh.

“Three days.”

It's without inflection, but Tahmoh holds his gaze, unflinching.

“I believe I know what you did,” he says after a short pause. “And it is pressing that we discuss it.”

“Tahmoh –”

“But,” the professor interrupts, “on the other hand, I think that all of us would be better off with a few moments to ourselves.”

He looks over Jensen towards the kitchen, where Danneel is standing.

Jensen nods, giving right of way to Tahmoh.

But, because he's a masochist, he hovers with his hand on the stair railing, watching as Tahmoh steps towards his wife – or ex, Jensen still doesn't know.

When he reaches her, the professor touches her gently on the shoulder – enough that she turns right into the circle of his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, hiding away for a few seconds, burying tear-filled eyes in Tahmoh's dark blue sweater.

He whispers to her.

And suddenly, it's enough. Jensen can't watch anymore. It's too intimate, it reminds Jensen of what he's just realized he's lost.

He climbs the stairs to his room, clenching his fists in an effort to keep his own traitorous tears at bay.

It's the only place where Time hadn't moved at all.

Jensen lets himself slide down the wall right beside the door. He would scowl at his own dramatics, except he simply can't move anymore. All energy leaves him at once, the difficult conversation he'd prepared for postponed.

Time isn't scarred by Darkness.

His anguish is merely a void.

Jensen reaches for comfort in the only place he can be himself. The beach with the black sand, the recurring image in his visions.

It is easy.

The beach had always held his identity, and now that Jensen finally comprehends it, the scene is at the touch of his fingertips.

Seconds more, and the ocean is in front of Jensen's eyes, now calm.

No waves, an unnatural stillness that he hadn't met before.

Maybe that is why he hears the footsteps ahead of time.

But Jensen doesn't dare believe it. He doesn't turn towards the sound. He waits until a figure looms over his shoulders, lets itself down, mirroring Jensen's position.

“Is it too nerdy if I choose this moment to quote the Terminator?”

A voice, familiar and soothing.

Jensen, the same shake in his hands that he always had around Jared, moves, turns his head just enough to meet Jared's eyes, confusion and relief clashing with warmth.

“You're back,” Jensen says, either because he can't miss a perfect opportunity to out-nerd his boss, even when he lacks any other coherent thought, or because the sight of him reduces Jensen to a few words, insufficient and hollow for all Jensen wants to show. 

“Time...you have Time in you,” Jensen whispers.

“I do,” Jared nods, smiling, circles still under his eyes. “You never quite let me die.”

Jensen chuckles darkly.

“I almost did this time.”

But the man beside him just shrugs at his reply. “We knew this would happen – at the beginning, when it happened first.”

Yeah, Jensen had not really thought that out, for eternity. It was just a moment, when Jensen didn't know what to do, Time being young, the first of the Warrior cycles under his guard. He had no Guide, for he had no past. He had no future, as the Warriors did not meet their mission yet.

So Jensen, the sole life in Time, acted purely out of instinct – out of _love_.

“Fuck,” Jensen allows.

It is his fault that Time becomes more fragmented, loses its cohesiveness each cycle, slowly leading to a collapse within itself.

“Hey,” Jared pulls him back, spiral stopped before it could start. He touches Jensen's arm, a warm hand on his bicep that should be a _moment_ , crucial, essential, long-awaited, and yet – it only feels natural. There is a faint thrill that will never go away – but, beyond that is something more profound – belonging. A fall, though long and harrowing, into the right arms.

Jensen is caught, for the briefest moment, in his most recent self, in the rules of his relationship with _Padalecki_. But then the sand is washed away by the ocean, and one life is lost in all – Jensen remembers, not just in his mind, but his body, how to do this again. He brings a hand to cover Jared's, a support as he turns, changes position just enough that he's able to watch Jared unhindered.

“Wait,” Jensen stops abruptly, the deep, intelligent thing he was going to say completely flying out of his head.

He has another immediate focus: Jared's shoulders and his hands. And his torso. The lines of ink swirling there have turned from black to a gleaming gold, raised like scars.

“Why are you naked?”

Nobody said when Jensen finally becomes the Guardian of Guardians, he'll magically turn subtle.

“You know, I am not naked. I have pants on.”

Jensen lets his gaze roam further over Jared's long legs, twisted in an uncomfortable way to mirror Jensen.

Huh. Jared does have pants on. Jensen's mistake. He was a bit distracted.

He is wearing the pair of jeans with which he had left the tangible world in the shadow of the trees, when he became solely Light in the small clearing. 

The memory of that –

“Did you know?” Jensen asks. “That we would end up here?”

Jared shakes his head.

“No. The dreams only showed me my path, both the Warrior's, and, you know, the physical one,” he adds, smiling, “to the clearing. Then pieces. Your hands...the symbol on your wrist, and...darkness.”

So, they both only get to know the whole story now. 

“You shared fragments of Time,” Jared continues. “You have been given back the past, and me...you have given me the future.”

_“A_ future,” Jensen interjects, grimacing. 

“You have given me meaning.”

Jared finally starts to resemble Padalecki, frown deepening his features, the same face Jensen had seen so often in meeting rooms where the CEO had the floor, and had given his all trying to convince the audience of his vision.

“I'm _your_ Guide, Jensen.”

He says it easily, with a clarity in purpose that Jensen has not yet achieved.

And it makes sense, somehow.

Time builds in Jared's vessel, the only one that does not change in the cycles. Jensen remembers clearly now: the present that cannot exist in the same moment as something that's been, or with something that’s yet to come, and is _alive_ , changing and uncertain. _Time_ should be only one, continuous and linear. The both of them, too close, would generate a paradox. 

But every time, when death leaves the human behind, only Time remains, finding the meaning of Sacrifice in the aftermath.

The creation of the true Warriors.

_It matters why we do it._

_People's actions impact others; they generate emotion; they generate fuel for another action._

_And so it goes, forward._

Words of another version.

“Then tell me,” Jensen says, still holding Jared's hand in his, an eternity at his fingertips.

Jensen comes back wishing he would never have to.

But he does.

He meets his Warriors seated in the safe haven that had become the room with ceiling to floor windows, borrowing from the energy left there, their bond. But it is covered in silence, in a dim light of a lamp and no desire to fill the empty space with words.

Jensen shares the same feeling, the same instinct to go inwards, seal all the hard things in.

However, he cannot afford to do it – he has to honor Jared's purpose.

_Sacrifice shall be the one that gives life to all._

Undressed to short sleeves, Jensen can see Time's mark on all of them. One, two, three bands over their wrists, thin, straight lines that solidify their identity. They hold reminders of the Darkness, the human experience that made them the Warriors of the Light, and contrast visible swirling markings on Chad and Genevieve's arms, now gold. Unlike Jared's, which are scars, theirs are glimmering paint, ink as a second skin.

Jensen takes his place in their middle, and begins.

Chad's single blackened band solidifies _Belief._

Jensen recounts the Guide's – Jared's – words.

_The mission of Belief is to mold things; thoughts, ideas, build them real, a form unbroken to serve the Realms and the other Warriors._

“Let me get this straight. I'm a cross of pastor slash _magician?_ ” Chad asks, no trace of humor in his voice, just anger, rough, simmering in the words.

If only he knew that Jared's here, in his mind, ever-present, fabric of Time in his hands at every point.

“I don't know,” Jensen answers sincerely. “The uncertainty is not gone – the future, _ours_ , is just starting. What I do know is that you must hold the trust of the bond between us; that you must hold the hope for the world.”

“Through what? Illusions?”

It's challenging, when Darkness still lies within, Light diffuse, spreading through the air slowly, edges not yet reached.

“Try to make something. See how much of an illusion it is.”

He passes down to Danneel in the armchair. Two bands around her small wrist.

She studies Jensen carefully, her expression showing her loss.

“Truth has a Charge this time,” Jensen repeats Jared's words. “Alexander Calvert.”

The lawyer is surprised.

“You must teach him the value in authenticity – in leaning towards your purpose, and not distancing yourself from it. In taking the wrong with the right you must show him that life can be lived like you have done it.”

_Once he has understood it, he will help people like him – and so the Light will spread, a cobweb of thin threads traveling through Darkness._

Danneel opens her mouth to say something.

Then she closes it, no sentence uttered.

The Guide fills in.

“Truth will always find it easier to gather emotions and thoughts of others, for she is the one that seeks, in all, the face without a mask, and finds a place for it in the world.”

Jensen's here – but Time is also, Jared a thought, a figure when Jensen closes his eyes, trails of touch on his arm.

_Reason, three bands, a clear mission. Connect, structure, bridge – the same as Belief – strengthen what already is. Unveil. Make them see._

Tahmoh, too, watches Jensen. Unlike Danneel, he exudes a quiet, but strong energy that imprisons all outward expression of his feelings.

He doesn't understand yet.

Only when he will know how to use the Sigil on his arm will he be capable of it.

Jensen carries on, a ritual that must be finished.

Chris.

_Strength...he has not realized it yet, how people surrounding him borrow his energy and depend on it. He is a beacon, an unwavering Light, and so he will be given more. He will be tougher to harm, in more ways than physical. He will be exactly what his Charges need._

“Charge _s_?” Chris questions, the interaction that hasn't changed, challenging and yet strangely comforting, “as in plural?”

Chris would reach for Jensen, maybe a hug, if they were different people.

As it is, he focuses on the practical things.

“Adrienne and Sophia,” Jensen answers, remembering the child playing with Chris' partner in his shards of the future.

_The child – he is important. He is one that will carry the Light on his own, not quite a Warrior, but a lone star that constructs the future in his best form, an inventor of the peace in tangible form._

“Take him to _kndbee_ to learn about technology. Protect his mother so he grows up listening to the right things,” Jensen explains to a dumbfounded Chris.

“She…” he starts, clearing his throat, “Addi doesn't have a kid.”

_She will._

“And Sophia?”

It's painful to voice the answer out loud for Jensen, Chris' friend.

But it is Time's will.

“Let go,” the Guardian advises. “Sometimes, fractures are needed to know how to rebuild properly.”

Jensen turns, finally, toward the leader.

_Peace._

“You have studied and learned; now it is time to do,” Jensen explains, highlighting the last word. “The Warrior of Peace was always on the front lines, regardless of what that means – a president, a politician, an activist, or a soldier. Choose, and let the Realms know the real you. Fighting for your cause – that is your mission.”

Genevieve doesn't make eye contact with Jensen. She studies the six bands on her wrist, the way they come right below the previous tattoo of the arrow.

“What, no special ability?” Chad throws, derisive, still not conscious of the fact that it is in his power to reshape the world.

“Her ability is who she is,” Jensen answers in an even tone, facing blue eyes that slowly start to accept him. “Why do you think no one is climbing the walls as we speak?” 

_It's a feeling she spreads...the knowledge that you're safe, that there is a little glimmer of hope, despite the circumstances. And the drive and motivation, the impulse of Belief and the Strength of will, the Truth the Realms crave for, the safe vulnerability that is supported in its margins by Reason._

There is a pause filled only by the sound of rain hitting the windows.

_“_ And you?” Tahmoh asks cautiously.

Right.

Human, or Warrior?

“I have my own mission – to show the meaning of Time to those in need.”

To Aldis, his neighbor.

_One day you'll stop to say hello, spend a few minutes with him, and he'll reconsider the emptiness surrounding him. He will live, he will have more time._

And Alona at _kndbee_ , someone who always had a kind word to say to Jensen, even on crappy, hallucination-filled mornings.

_Prove to her that the time she spent helping build the company is worth something. Continue the work with her, leave behind a name that means something._

Jensen will.

Just like all of them.

They decide that since they are still part of the everyday world, they need to report the CEO of _kndbee_ as missing. They say they think he got lost while exploring the area alone. There is a search party, and questions, but all they can really say is Padalecki took off on a walk and never came back.

It’s grief, drawn out, absence of hope.

Chad’s the only one who benefits from it. He’s given time to mourn; to find the determination to honor his friend in letting the legend be part of him.

Eventually, there’s a memorial service.

Returning, what seems a lifetime later, to the office, Jensen finds that Jared presciently had made arrangements to move the company into a trust management, allowing for its work to continue uninterrupted while a new CEO is sought.

Jensen knows it will ultimately be Alona.

The good thing is that Jensen does not need sleep anymore – now he is truly a Warrior, more than his human needs. The time he’d have slept, now he spends with Jared on the beach.

Sometimes, they talk as Guide and Warrior.

_“You will find the second part of the legend at the end of your journal,” Jared whispers, smiling, always waiting for him, hands in the pockets of his jeans._

_But closeness, intimacy – it is not impossible anymore._

_When they walk, hands touch each other in passing._

_“There is a second part?”_

_“Of course. The second, or the first...it is ours.”_

_Theirs. Just like this is. The infinity. All Time could ever dream._

_“The journal...it is a part of you, one that completes only as you yourself reach the finish.”_

_Jensen allows himself a moment of levity._

_“And what if I never find it?”_

_Jared stops, pulls on Jensen's hand to join him too._

_His voice is low, carried from the tangible world. “You can imagine – you haven't always found it. That is how this works: each cycle is different. Reason does not always help you with the pieces. Warriors abide by their duty better, or worse.”_

_The only thing that is the same is them – two parts of a future getting smaller each day._

_The Warriors – neither Sacrifice or Time can guarantee the appearance of Light._

_But they try._

_And their reward – a moment like this, where Jensen can feel Jared's breath as his, palm enclosed on the simple necklace Jensen had given him so long ago. Some things endure, gain the ability to travel between worlds_ – _even if squished in the pocket of a pair of jeans, even if old, carrying terrible marks with it._

__

Jensen opens the journal at its first page.

Before, it was empty. Now, there are lines written in crimson red ink.

_At the beginning, the world was simple, and Time took note of it impartially. At the beginning, Light was separated clearly and unequivocally from Darkness._

_But then Time became human._

_Time met a Warrior, a soul, a human vessel, that made it vibrate, lose its inevitability and consequence. Time fell in love with the one that would have died a thousand times to ensure that he would live on – at first slowly, then falling unto itself, collapsing, a controlled chaos broken into million details._

_So Time expanded._

_It became human as his Warriors just to be with him. It lost pieces of the future, because he was the present, solely, entirely – Time lived alongside the world, painted itself in its colors and sung its songs._

_It is what should have been all along, for the meaning of Time is only a human life – without the cycles, centuries, millennia, and without the story of Sacrifice, it would not have known how to be a Guardian to the Fractured Realms, it would not have lived at all._


End file.
